p to p

“I want a tattoo that says I’m over my ex.”

Paige glanced up from her sketchbook, surprised and confused. Azzi stood in front of the counter with her bag hanging on one should and her car keys still in her hand. She had a stubborn expression she had been wearing for most of the week. She looked tired. Slightly annoyed, too. Though that seemed to be less of a temporary situation.

“Are you over your ex?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the whole point.”

Azzi sighed and dropped into the chair opposite the blonde tattoo artist. The shop was slow and quiet on a rainy afternoon, only one other artist was working further back. There was music playing low through a speaker. Azzi twitched her eyebrows as she recognized the song immediately.

Love by Keshia Cole.

Of fucking course!

Paige saw the disaster in Azzi’s eyes and decided to help out this beautiful young lady, who wanted a tattoo that said she was over her ex.

That should be easy, right?

“Okay. What do you want?” Paige closed her sketchbook and rested her chin on her hands, entertaining the idea of a tattoo for an ex.

“I don’t know! You’re the expert!”

“Fine. Let’s pretend we’re making responsible choices today.” Paige reached out for a blue folder which contains her portfolio. She scanned the first couple of pages and fired off recommendations for Azzi.

“Flowers are usually popular. People love flowers. They have different meanings. I believe the dandelion represents freedom.”

Azzi made a face.

Paige noticed immediately. “See, that’s somewhat helpful. That’s sort of a feedback. So, you hate flowers.”

“I don’t hate flowers.”

“You looked personally offended with the dandelions.”

“I don’t want flowers tattooed on me. They’re what peopel buy when they’ve forgotten an anniversary.” Azzi pouted.

“Fair enough. Sounds like that came from an experience.” Paige looked back on her portfolio. “What about celestial things? Moons are also popular. Or we can do some stars. Or a constellation perhaps. You know, the universe and galaxy, and all that. It means endless possibilities and finding your own direction again.”

Azzi leaned forward to look at the samples in the portfolio. The designs were nice. Clean lines. Impressive details. She could appreciate them on her, but she would appreciate them more on someone else.

“Those aren’t really me.”

“Duly noted.” Paige turned another page. “How about animals? We’ve got birds, dogs, spiders, and fish. Oh! Did you know last month, someone asked for a raccoon tattoo?”

Azzi laughed despite herself. “A raccoon?”

Paige nodded, happy they were going somewhere with picking the design and happy to see the beautiful woman with even more beautiful eyes and smile, laugh.

“She cried twice during our session.”

“Cried over a raccoon?” Azzi asked, unable to decide if Paige was joking.

“Over her ex-boyfriend, actually. The raccoon was the emotional support animal tattoo.”

Azzi looked back down at the portfolio and mumbled. “I won’t cry again.”

The tattoo artist flipped another page, not knowing how to respond to that. She tapped a design near the corner. A broken heart. Classic.

Azzi immediately scrunched her nose in disgust.

Paige let out a soft chuckle and continued. She pointed at arrows, trees, and even commercial brand logos. Azzi’s expression somehow got worse.

“How about that?”

Azzi nodded towards the display behind Paige. The shelf was crowded with framed sketches and other artworks, but in the middle of them was a tiny Lego bird. Red and gold pieces spread into wide wings, perched proudly on a yellow and brown stand.

“You want Lego tattoo?” Paige asked as she glanced over her shoulder.

“Not a Lego. I want the bird.”

Paige whipped her head back to Azzi, majorly offended by her calling it a bird. “You mean the phoenix?”

“Yeah.” Azzi shrugged. “Phoenix. Bird. Whatever it is.”

Paige looked horrified, giving Azzi a decent glare. “Do you know what a phoenix means?”

Azzi’s face screwed up, becoming suspicious if this was a trick question. “Should I be worried?”

“About the phoenix?”

“About whatever face you’re making.” Azzi didn’t trust Paige’s expression, which shifted slowly. The corners of her mouth lifted devilishly.

And then Paige laughed.

“You’re weird. Don’t you know that?” Azzi leaned back on her seat, putting a few extra inches between herself and Paige’s increasingly concerning smile. If the tattoo artist turned out to be a pscyho lunatic, Azzi felt reasonably confident she could dash out to the front door of this small tattoo shop.

“I get that a lot. I’ll make you a deal Ms. I-Want-A-Tattoo-Because-My-Ex-Left-Me.”

“She didn’t leave me.” Azzi’s blood suddenly boiled.

“Not the point again.” Paige leaned back on her seat as well, crossing her arms and leg, studying Azzi.

“Fine! What is it?”

“If you can tell me what a phoenix tattoo means, I’ll tattoo it on you for free.”

Azzi blinked. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, definitely not.” Paige adjusted her watch before looking at Azzi’s brown eyes. “I’ll give you a week. You can do your research, ask your friends, search it on Tiktok. Hell, you can even ask Tash at the back.”

Azzi momentarily leaned in and took a peek towards the rear of the tattoo shop. She could hear the faint buzzing sound of the tattoo machine from where Paige’s coworker sat. She could also make out the blood on the client’s arm. It was not a lot, but she could see it.

Her stomach gave an unhelpful little twist.

“Come back here if you have your answer.” Paige stood up and walked behind the counter where she started arranging her sketchbooks and some bottle of inks. “Until then, maybe spend some time figuring out what you really want Ms. I’m-Trying-To-Get-Over-My-Ex-So-I'm-Just-Gonna-Get-A-Tattoo.”

“Azzi is just fine.”

Paige picked up the last bottle of ink and paused, confusion written on her face.

“You can call me Azzi.”

And then there was that devilish smile again. “See you next time, Azzi.”

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

After three days of stubbornly avoiding the subject, Azzi found herself in a pottery class. She still hadn’t searched what a phoenix tattoo meant.

She wasn’t sure why.

The answer would take her only a few tap on her phone or a quick question to Siri. Instead, she had spent three days enrolling in various classes to make herself busy while continuing to think about it far more than she would like to admit.

Or maybe it wasn’t about the phoenix, and it was more of that tattoo artist with a smug grin.

Azzi pressed on the clay a little firmer. The edge almost collapsed. She panicked a little, not wanting to start from scratch.

Why was she thinking about the tattoo artist anyway? She didn’t even know her name.

One thing was for certain, though. It had become painfully obvious to Azzi that she had spent more time thinking about Paige than her ex-girlfriend. The realization came like an avalanche, tumbling down somewhere between her morning yoga session and weekly brunch with Ashanti earlier today.

Now, she had another person to think about.

Just great!

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

The tattoo shop was nearly dark when Azzi arrived.

Most of the lights had already been turned off, leaving Paige moving in between the rooms to check everything before closing. She was twirling a set of keys looped around two fingers. She looked up whtn the bell above the door chimed, surprised for exactly half a second before her expression turned into something giddy.

“We’re already closed, so if you have your answer, I’m afraid we’ll have to give you that tattoo on Friday.”

“I don’t have an answer yet. It’s not what I’m here for.”

“And what are you here for?” Paige glanced at Azzi who was standing awkwardly in the middle of the shop, her hands behind her back. She looked like she was called to the principal’s office. The thought made Paige snicker as she opened the drawer behind the counter.

“I was passing by and I remembered I left my scarf here.”

Paige paused halfway through counting the money from the cash drawer and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm. “A scarf, huh?”

“Yeah, in my haste of leaving, I think I left it here.”

“And you’re trying to get it three nights after?” Paige smirked, teasing evident on her face.

“I’ve been busy.” It wasn’t technically a lie. She did a lot of things in the past seventy-two hours. Thinking of the tattoo artist made eighty percent of those times.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” Paige said, returning her attention back to the cash registry.

“If I do have the answer now, why would I get tattoo on Friday and not tomorrow?” Azzi couldn’t help but ask.

“Because I’m off Wednesday and Thursday. I’ll be back on Friday.” Paige finished counting and locked the cash drawer. “Unless, you want Tash to do it for you. She’s popular with the ladies.”

“No!” The response was faster than an F1 car zooming on the grand prix. Azzi mentally slapped herself for acting a little desperate.

Paige chuckled, pocketing the key before rounding the corner. Azzi stood straighter than a ruler, with her hand still behind her back and her shoulders held too high. She looked like she was waiting to be accused of something.

Which, to be fair, she sort of was.

“You always stand like this when you’re looking for missing scarves?” Paige asked, standing in front of Azzi a little too close. The almost nonexistent distance made Azzi’s eyes snap to Paige’s.

“Do you have my missing scarf?” Azzi whispered, afraid if she would let her voice be heard, Paige would vanish.

“No.” Paige whispered back. “But I do have a question for you.”

Dangerous.

Paige took another step and Azzi had a moment of weakness and shifted her gaze to Paige’s lips.

Shit!

Very Dangerous.

“What is it?” She heard herself ask Paige.

“Do you want to get ice cream?”

Azzi found her way back to Paige’s eyes, it sparkled in excitement that Azzi didn’t know what the blonde was excited for. But she ended up nodding and caught Paige smile extra wide.

“Great! I just know the perfect ice cream to help you move on.”

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

Paige had somehow ended up with mint chocolate. Azzi wasn’t surprised. It felt very on-brand for someone who probably had a habit of becoming oddly passionate about things nobody else thought to argue about. Or try to eat.

They were walking down the pier and Azzi noticed there were far more people on the boardwalk than she had expected. It was one of those early July evenings where the weather finally decided to cooperate.

“Want to try mine?” Paige held her cone slightly towards Azzi as they slowed to let a group of teenagers pass.

Azzi looked at the pale green scoop an d immediately shook her head. “No, thank you. That tastes like toothpaste.”

“Toothpaste?” The laugh escaped before Paige could stop it. She tucked one hand into her jacket pocket as they continued walking. “That’s such a weird argument.”

“You’re telling me you’re not eating Colgate?”

“How about you take a bite and tell me if it’s Colgate.” Paige offered her cone again, this time teasingly with how she almost shoved it into Azzi’s lips.

“Ugh! No!” Azzi took another bite of her strawberry ice cream, trying to protect herself from tasting the nasty flavored ice cream Paige got.

“Fine. Strawberry is boring, anyway.” Paige shrugged, licking her cone as they reached the railing.

Azzi stopped short in front of her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. It’s boring because it’s a safe choice.”

“It’s a good choice.”

“I doubt all of your choices are good.” Paige leaned her back on the railings, eyes never leaving Azzi’s.

The wind pushed a few strands of blonde hair across her face, and Azzi wanted to reach out and tuck them behind Paige’s ear.

She took another bite of her boring strawberry ice cream instead, for distraction. She stepped beside Paige and leaned her elbows against the railing. The water below reflected the lights from the pier as it shifted with the tide. Around them, conversations drifted in and out, mixed with distant music from somewhere further down the boardwalk and lots of children crying.

This should’ve been awkward. They only met three nights ago, and Azzi hadn’t even learned Paige’s name until the ice cream vendor had called it across the counter earlier.

“You take ice cream conversations very seriously.” Paige studied her. “Are you still annoyed I called your ice cream boring?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

Paige was taken aback with the question that her cone slipped from her grip and fell into the dark water below.

“Shit!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” Azzi panicked, horrified at the situation. “I didn’t mean to make you drop it.”

“It’s fine. I think the ocean needs some toothpaste tonight, anyway.” Paige grinned, glancing at Azzi’s cone. “Guess we’ll have to share your boring strawberry now.”

Azzi rolled her eyes before extending her hand to Paige so she could get a bite.

“And to answer your question, I have a busy schedule tomorrow. I'm going to take you out on a date. How does lunch then paint ball sound?”

Paige leaned in and licked from the side of the ice cream without any apparent concern for the fact that Azzi froze at what Paige said and at the sight of her tongue.

There was a tiny drop that melted on Azzi’s thumb and Paige didn’t hesitate to gently grab Azzi’s wrist, afraid the other girl might pull away.

It was like a slow motion in movies where Azzi didn’t have a second to comprehend what was happening. All her brain could register was the warm feeling of Paige’s tongue licking her thumb.

It was all too much that she jerked her hand away from Paige, accidentally throwing her ice cream out into the dark ocean. Both of them watched it being swallowed by the waves.

Azzi opened her mouth, then closed it again. How had they gone from bickering over ice cream flavors to sending the said ice creams to the water below?

“I guess, that’s a Yes to tomorrow.” Paige looked entirely too pleased with herself. She wasn’t even attempting to hide it.

Between the devilish smile and the obvious amusement in those blue eyes, Azzi had the distince impression she’d walked into a trap.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

Azzi had changed outfits four times.

Five, if she counted the one she had immediately removed after puttingg it on because it made her look like a side character in Hannah Montana.

It was just a casual invitation to spend her day with Paige. She didn’t want to think more into it but it was all she could think of.

She stood in front of her bedroom mirror with a white shirt in one hand and a growing sense of irritation in the other. Her bed had disappeared beneath discarded clothes sometime during the last half hour. Two pairs of jeans had been rejected. Three tops had somehow become controversial. A yellow floral Sunday dress had briefly entered the conversation in her head before being dismissed on the grounds.

Azzi refused to give Paige the satisfaction of showing up too dressed and eager. That woman was already smug enough.

She dropped the shirt on to the pile and screamed.

This was absurd. They weren’t even dating.

Or was this a date date already?

Paige asked her out. Technically.

The memory of last night made her groan and cover her face with both hands.

Fuck that stupid confidence. That stupid ice cream conversation. That stupid lick on her thumb.

Definitely, fuck that stupid smile.

And Azzi realized she was probably in trouble when getting dressed for Paig proved considerably more stressful than her breakup had been.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

The pizza place wasn’t fancy.

They were seated at a table near the back, away from other diners but not that far not to hear a family arguing over pizza toppings from a table near the window.

Azzi liked the place. And the pizza.

Annoyingly, she liked it a lot.

Paige seemed to notice sometime after Azzi finished her second slice of margherita. She wiped her fingers on a napkin after finishing her own slice of pepperoni and looked at Azzi with that small, pleased smile.

“You like it here?”

Azzi pointed at her plate, as though the evidence wasn’t already fairly damning. “It’s so good!”

“And the place?”

“Five-star rating, tops!” Azzi reached for her drink.

“When was your last five-star rating of a restaurant?”

“Uh, it’s been a while since I had a good meal out.” Azzi admitted, setting the glass down quietly.

Paige was wary in shifting her expression. She didn’t want Azzi to think she pitied her or something.

“Your ex didn’t take you out that much?”

It was an innocent and careful question. Something Azzi hadn’t thought of for quite some time since meeting the blonde.

“Not really. She was more in love with her work.”

Paige gave a soft nod, understanding it wasn’t the time to ask more questions about the breakup or Azzi’s dating history.

Azzi appreciated it, though she would never say it loud.

“That’s a shame. Well, good thing I have excellent taste in pizza parlors.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Are you planning to take me to every pizza restaurant you know?”

“If that’s what makes you happy.”

“Now, you’re just plain flirting.”

“Trust me babe, this isn’t even the tip of my rizz.”

Yeah, Azzi was not going to think about her ex ever again.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

Azzi had paint on her cheek, her sleeve, and somewhere along the side of her neck that she was choosing not to think about.

It had started as one neat splatter across her shoulder, which Paige had looked far too proud of, and then deteriorated from there. The whole paintball field smelled faintly of damp wood, grass, and whatever was inside these paintball guns, which Azzi suspected was not something anyone should be breathing in for recreational purposes.

Paige was hiding behind a stack of barrels when Azzi found her.

Or, more accurately, when Paige let herself be found, because Azzi was beginning to understand that the blonde liked appearing innocent right before doing something annoying. She had her mask pushed up onto her head, hair messy beneath the strap, grin already waiting.

“You look terrible.” Paige said, casually leaning one shoulder against the barrel like she hand’t spent the last twenty minutes sprinting aaround and making Azzi’s life miserable.

Azzi lifted her paintball gun. “You look worse.”

Paige glanced down at herself, then back up to Azzi’s eyes. “I look decent.”

“Decent to lose!”

“You have paint in your hair.”

“So do you.”

Paige reached up, touched the side of her head, and found yellow paint on her fingers.

"Hmmmmm. Good shot, I guess. But really? On my hair? As if I’m not blonde enough.”

“You shot me in the back!”

“You were running away.”

“I was trying to hide first.”

“That’s not how it works, babe.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes at the endearment. It made Paige smile wider. This woman really did have an upsetting amount of confidence and charisma. She hated how she was sucked right into the depth of Paige’s magnetic charm.

“I hate you.” Azzi said, mostly because it was easier than admitting whatever she was starting to feel.

“Oh?” Paige’s eyebrows lifted, her smile still in place. “That’s cute. But I don’t think you do.”

“I do!” Then Azzi fired.

Paige yelped, twisting out ouf the way. The splatter was bright orange against her dark rented overalls. Paige stared at it for a second, then looked back at Azzi with her mouth slighlty open, like she couldn’t believe Azzi just did that.

“So that’s how we’re doing this?”

Azzi lowered her gun a little. “Apparently.”

Paige moved fast after that, catching Azzi around the waist before she could retreat. Azzi stumbled back with a laugh she didn’t mean to make, one hand gripping Paige’s shoulder for support as they toppled over the side of a wooden barricade.

They fell into a haystack, laughing.

Paige’s hand stayed at her waist. Azzi noticed.

Obviously.

Paige seemed to notice that Azzi noticed her hand placement, which was somehow worse.

The blonde’s smile softened, losing some of the teasing edge, and for a second Azzi forgot what she was supposed to do with her hands. One was still on Paige’s shoulder, the other was holding the paintball gun, which felt wildly inappropriate for the moment.

“Hi.” Paige said, voice quieter now. “I didn’t know you’re very competitive.”

“You started it.”

“I did.”

“That was very easy for you to admit.”

“You make it very easy for me to do anything.”

The confession should’ve made Azzi push her and run, but she could no longer deny her attraction to Paige and the knots in her stomach. She had been ignoring it all day and now it had come to eat her alive.

“Are you having fun?” Paige asked softly.

Azzi nodded, unable to trust her voice.

Then Paige’s eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, making Azzi’s breath hitch. Paige was close enough that Azzi could see the smear of yellow paint near her defined jaw. It should’ve looked stupid. It did look stupid, technically. It also made Azzi want to reach up and wipe it away.

The tattoo artist shifted closer.

Azzi let her.

And that felt like an answer to a question neither of them had asked out loud.

“Azzi.”

“Yeah?”

Paige’s gaze flickered to her mouth again. Very obviously. Azzi’s fingers tightenedd against her shoulder.

But before Paige could lean down and close the gap, a loud ring was heard indicating their time on the field was up.

It made them both jerk back, Paige falling down unceremoniously. Her paintball gun got knocked on the ground and accidentally shot paint out directly at Azzi’s chest.

“Ooopsie?”

“You are so dead to me!” Azzi open fired three shots at Paige on the ground before stomping off the field.

She could hear Paige’s laughter while walking off.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

It was a quiet Thursday, like a ceasefire as they didn’t see each other.

Paige had gone sailing with her friends, another useless charm of Paige’s which Azzi wanted to deny.

She had spent the whole Thursday organizing her life and thoughts, actually. The attempt had gone poorly.

It was very complicated, but also not really.

She liked Paige, and Paige appeare to like her too. There had nearly been a kiss, so that kind of counted.

But she also acknowledged it was too early to start anything with the blonde. Maybe they could start somewhere else instead.

She found herself walking toward the tattoo shop after her last meeting of the day.

Tash was the one who greeted her at the counter, wearing an all-knowing grin. “She just finished with a client, she’s at the back cleaning her station. Please tell her I’m heading out for the day already.”

“Thank you.”

Azzi walked further down to the back to where Paige was sitting on her chair, throwing some items to a nearby bin. She had her back towards where Azzi was standing.

“The phoenix symbolizes the opportunity to start anew.” Azzi started. She saw Paige stiffened but not turning around. So, she continued. “The phoenix burns but it does not perish. As it rises from the ashes, the phoenix symbolizes hope for a better future, overcoming its shortcomings.”

Paige slowly turned her swivel chair around.

“It’s the tattoo I want. Someday.” Azzi stepped closer, she had never seen Paige speechless and nervous, awaiting her next move. “Someday when everything is all clear.”

Paige opened her legs to let Azzi move in between them. She automatically placed her hands on Azzi’s waist, eyes never wavering from those beautiful brown orbs looking down at her.

“What do you want right now?”

“Right now, I want to take you to dinner and kiss you endlessly by the end of the night.”

And there was that stupid grin Azzi started to grow oddly fond of. “How about we re-arrange our schedule for the night? Can I get that kiss first before you take me out to dinner?”

Azzi laughed at the stupidity of it all but nodded all too excitedly as she leaned down and cup Paige’s face in her hands and kissed her.

Paige smiled into it almost immediately.

The kiss was soft at first, mostly because they both couldn’t stop smiling. Paige slowly stood up and pulled Azzi closer, not letting her lips go.

Azzi’s thumbs brushed over her cheeks, trying to feel grounded and making sure it was all real.

They apparently needed air and had to break t he kiss. But their touches remain uninterrupted.

“You okay?” Paige asked, leaning her forehead against Azzi’s.

“More than okay.” And Azzi kiss the blonde again, because she could. And why not?

“Good. And let’s not use a missing scarf excuse next time you want to see me, yeah? It's summer, Az.”

“I hate you!” Azzi huffed, shoving Paige’s laughing face away from her.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

NINE MONTHS LATER

“I want a tattoo that says I’m in love with my girlfriend.”

Paige smiled before turning around from her chair. It was closing time and Tash just left ten minutes ago.

“Are you in love with your girlfriend?"

“Head over heels.”

Paige got up and strode toward Azzi. She reached for Azzi’s right hand, kissing the knuckles softly. She moved Azzi’s hand as she kissed her palm, down to her wrist. She stopped and held Azzi’s wrist gently.

Staring back at her was a small phoenix tattoo. Its vibrant orange, yellow, and red colors looked magnificent and breathtaking. Paige threw in some flowers around it, because flowers were no longer something Azzi got when her girlfriend missed a special occasion.

And Paige never missed anything.

She gave Azzi's phoenix tattoo a kiss.

“Where do you want your next tattoo be?” She asked, looking at Azzi’s dark eyes.

“Somewhere where my girlfriend could only see them.”

“That’s a special session and it requires the privacy of our bedroom.”

“How much will it cost me?” Azzi laced her arms around Paige’s neck.

Paige’s grin became unbearable, and Azzi held her breath on what the blonde would say.

“A pint of chocolate mint ice cream.”

Introduction 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When I started writing this, I told myself it was research.

Looking at it now, it isn’t. It’s archaeology.

Every interview, every article, every late-night phone call that turned into a quote — they’ve all been dug up, and held to the light again. This isn’t the story of Sherry Bomb, or of the girl who defined a generation of rock music. 

It’s the story of the woman who lived underneath the noise, and the younger woman who tried, very poorly, to keep her out of the fire.

In 1985 I was twenty-two, a year out of college. I worked in the cultural desk of CBS Features, which sounded impressive until you saw the paychecks. 

I spent most days transcribing other people’s interviews, listening to the professionals talk over me, and trying to remember whether I actually liked journalism or if I just liked proximity to interesting people.

Then they asked me to profile Paige Bueckers.

At the time, Paige was the name on every magazine cover: the lead singer of Sherry Bomb, the band that had turned the Reagan years into a riot.

She was twenty-five, newly platinum, and infamously difficult. 

“You’re doing Paige?” my editor asked, half-smiling, half-worried.  “Apparently,” I said. “You know she doesn’t talk to people.”  “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

That was the bravest thing I’d ever said, and possibly the dumbest.

I was chosen precisely because I had no reputation for asking the wrong questions (mainly because I had no reputation at all).

At that time, what I knew about her could fit on the back of a cigarette pack.

She drank gin straight, smoked like she was paid for it, and she dressed like a man who’d stolen a woman's wardrobe.

She was, depending on who you asked, either the future of rock or its funeral.

Rolling Stone had called her “If David Bowie and Joan Jett had a daughter, she’d look like this.”

She was too pretty to be taken seriously, too bold to be ignored, and too androgynous before the word was fashionable.

I was told she hated interviews.

That she’d walked out of Time, and told MTV to go fuck itself. So when my editor said, “She asked for someone new,” I thought it was another myth.

“Maybe she just wants a clean slate,” Colleen said while I tried on outfits.  “Or a new victim,” I said. “Don’t fall in love with her,” she warned.  “I won’t.”

I did. But that comes later.

Paige spoke in riddles, like she was bored of being understood, and every question I asked, she turned into something else. 

When I asked about her stage presence, she talked about pirates. 

When I asked about fame, she talked about freedom.

I wrote the piece that week, filed it on time, and thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

This book began, I suppose, with that first conversation — a few hours in a hotel suite in Los Angeles, July 1985. 

What follows is not a biography. It’s part recollection, part documentation, and part apology for the things I never printed and the things I did.

There will be pages from interviews, letters, fragments of songs, and pieces of the world that existed around her.

Some of them are mine, some are hers, and some belong to no one anymore.

I am not here to explain Paige Bueckers, this would be impossible.

I’m here to remember her.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features — July 20, 1985, Los Angeles, California

The first thing you notice about Paige Bueckers is that she doesn’t notice you.

At least, not right away. 

She wears black jeans torn at the knees, a sleeveless white shirt with the words Sherry Bomb scribbled across it in red marker — her own handwriting, she tells me later — and a leather jacket that looks older than both of us.

There’s a cigarette behind her ear, a silver ring on every other finger, and a thin gold chain tucked under her shirt. The only makeup she wears is a streak of eyeliner smudged across the corner of one eye.

Her hair is pale and sharp, bleached too many times.

She sits cross-legged on the hotel sofa, sipping a drink that looks like water and smells like gin.

I set my recorder on the table between us, and she grins.

AZ: You don’t usually do interviews. PB: I don’t usually do mornings either. But here we are. AZ: It’s two in the afternoon. PB: Morning is a state of mind.

She laughs at her own joke and gestures toward the window.

PB: See that? It looks hot enough to melt the whole city. AZ: You like it here? PB: Not really. I like the noise, though. You can’t hide much when everything’s loud.

She plays with the edge of her drink, tracing the rim, and watches me like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.

AZ: You’ve been on tour for almost two years straight. Do you ever get tired of being loud? PB: Sometimes. (pauses)  But silence’s worse. 

When she lights a cigarette, she offers me one, even after I tell her I don’t smoke.

PB: You should learn. It makes your hands look interesting.

Paige is impossible to categorize.

She moves between masculine and feminine the way other people switch guitars, instinctively.

AZ: People call you a mystery. PB: People call me all sorts of things. AZ: Does it bother you? PB: Only when they’re right.

We talk about the band — Sherry Bomb — and she mentions the guitarist, KK, with a kind of affectionate exasperation.

The drummer, Nika, she calls “family.” 

For someone who supposedly hates interviews, Paige was generous with words.

About twenty minutes in, I ask the question I’m supposed to ask: 

AZ: What scares you?

She leans back, exhales smoke, and smiles like she’s been waiting for it.

PB: I love sharks. AZ: Sharks? PB: Yeah, they never stop moving or they die. (pauses) Love pirates, too.

There it is, the first derailment. I don’t understand yet that Paige does this when she doesn’t want to answer honestly.

AZ: Pirates? PB: Think about it. No one ever knew what to call them: men, women, thieves, gods (grins) I like that.

This, apparently, is her idea of small talk.

AZ: So you see yourself as a pirate? PB: Something like that.

I ask her about fame, and for the first time, she looks tired.

PB: Fame’s like drinking salt water, darling. You think it’s going to help, but it just makes you thirstier.

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

Later, she asks if I want to hear something new.

From a table covered in cassette tapes, she picks one up, slides it into a tape deck, and presses play.

 The song that fills the room is rough, and she watches me listen.

PB: Be honest. Is it any good? AZ: It hurts a little.

She smiles again and leans forward to stub out her cigarette.

PB: You’re not like the others. AZ: What others? PB: The ones who write about me. AZ: You’ve only just met me. PB: Exactly.

She finishes her drink, stands, and disappears into the next room. I can hear her humming from behind the door, a melody without words.

When she returns, she hands me a folded napkin. Inside it, there’s a single line written in smudged ink:

The sea doesn’t scare me. Drowning does.

“Quote that,” she says. “It’ll make me sound mysterious.”

When Paige comes back from the next room, she’s lost the jacket and the shoes.

Barefoot, tank top hanging loose, a new drink in hand, something neon this time. 

Her hair falls in her face, and she doesn’t bother to fix it. 

She drops onto the couch beside me — closer than before — and points at my tape recorder.

PB: Is that thing still on? AZ: It should be. PB: Good. I like the sound of my own voice.

She laughs at that.

AZ: Your manager said you hated interviews. PB: I do (grinning) But I like you.

I tell her she’s not supposed to flirt with journalists.

PB: Who made that rule? AZ: Common sense. PB: You think I’ve ever had that?

It’s ridiculous how bright she is when she laughs.

AZ: What do you get out of interviews, then? PB: Amusement, sometimes a headline.

She watches me scribble that down.

PB: You’re really writing that? AZ: It’s a good line. PB: I have better ones.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, waiting for me to ask.

I don’t. I just stare until she laughs again, softer this time.

PB: Okay, okay. “I don’t want to be remembered; I want to be replayed.” That one’s free.

I tell her it sounds rehearsed.

PB: So what? Everything worth saying should be.

She takes another sip, then eyes me curiously.

PB: You don’t look like a reporter. AZ: What do I look like, then? PB: A school-teacher, or a nun who lost her faith.

I raise an eyebrow, pretending not to smile.

AZ: You’ve met a lot of nuns, have you? PB: Catholic school dropout. Twelve years of guilt (grinning) Want to compare notes?

I laugh at that.

AZ: What do you actually want people to know about you? PB: Nothing (pauses) Maybe that I’m funnier than they think.

And she is. 

AZ: People say you take yourself too seriously. PB: I’m the least serious person I know  (leans closer)  You’re the serious one. I can tell. AZ: I’m just doing my job. PB: Exactly.

Her knee brushes mine barely. She notices, of course. She notices everything.

PB: Relax, rookie. I’m not gonna corrupt you. 

I’m glad my recorder catches the silence that follows, because I have no idea what to say. 

She laughs again, and reaches over to steal my pen. She spins it between her fingers like a drumstick.

PB: You don’t write like a rookie, though. I read that piece you did on the D.C. punk scene. AZ: You read my article? PB: Yeah. I liked how you made it sound like it mattered (shrugs)  No one writes like that anymore. Everyone’s too busy being clever.

That surprises me more than anything she’s said all day.

AZ: And what are you busy being? PB: Bored (smiles)  Entertain me.

I ask about her music instead, what she’s trying to say with it.

She groans dramatically, sinking into the couch.

PB: Oh, you’re one of those journalists. Always looking for meaning. AZ: I like words. PB: I like noise (grins)

She toasts me with her glass. I don’t clink back.

She asks about me. No one ever does.

PB: So, Washington girl, right? You said D.C.? AZ: Born and raised. PB: You like it? AZ: It’s home. PB: Sounds boring.

I tell her I like boring.

PB: That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

She’s laughing when she says it, but something in her eyes softens.

PB: You know, you look like you belong in the seventies. AZ: Is that a compliment? PB: Depends. Did you like the seventies?

The recorder hums.

PB: Tell me something. Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not curious about me?

I answer before I think.

AZ: Are you always this arrogant? PB: Only when I’m right.

Editor’s note (added 2025) Written by: Azzi Fudd

At this point in the tape, there’s laughter. Then a pause, then the sound of Paige asking me if I want another drink. 

The rest of the tape is static, but I remember how it ended: she walked me to the elevator barefoot, humming something under her breath.

When I asked if I could call her again for follow-up questions, she said, “You won’t have to. I’ll find you.”

She did.

The Headline

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The article came out three weeks later under the headline “Paige Bueckers: a Little Bit of Heaven (and Hell).”

It ran four pages in CBS Features’ August issue, accompanied by a photograph that still makes me wince: me sitting on the hotel sofa, in a godawful outfit notebook in hand, Paige mid-laugh beside me, her arm draped over the back of the couch like we were old friends.

It was the first interview she’d given in nearly a year, and the only one that didn’t end in an argument. 

The piece was passed around newsrooms like gossip: “You got her to talk?” “How the hell did you manage that?”

The editor called it “intimate.” I called it “lucky.”

People liked that she sounded both self-destructive and self-aware, like she was in on the joke. 

I received a bouquet of red carnations from her publicist with a note that only said, “She doesn’t hate you. That’s a first.”

A week later, she called me herself.

“Hey, rookie,” she said. I could hear laughter and clinking glasses in the background. “Read your piece, it was good. I should fire you for that.”

She couldn’t fire me, obviously, but I didn’t know what to say, so I said thank you.

“Also,” she added, “you looked really cute in that picture.”

I didn’t say “thank you” to that, even though I wanted to.

Then she told me she was playing The Forum next Friday, that she’d leave two tickets at will-call.

“Bring a friend,” she said. “Or don’t”

I didn’t go.

I told myself it was because of work, or because Colleen couldn’t make it, or because I’d already spent too much time thinking about her voice.

The truth is simpler.

I was afraid of what might happen if she saw me again.

Excerpt from “PAIGE BUECKERS: WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?”

By R. M. Delaney

Rumor has it the rock world’s golden girl might be rewriting more than just the rulebook on sound.

At twenty-five, Paige Bueckers has already broken every boundary she could find: the charts, the stages, and, some whisper, the bedroom door.

Several sources claim the Sherry Bomb frontwoman has been seen “getting cozy” with both male and female companions after shows. One particularly enthusiastic roadie describes her as “one of the guys, and not in a bad way.”

But in an industry where sex sells and gender bends, Miss Bueckers might be selling confusion.

Last month, she appeared at a charity gala wearing a black tailored suit — tie, pocket square, the works — prompting one columnist to ask if “Paige wants to be Mick Jagger or marry him.”

When asked to clarify, her management declined to comment, stating only that “Miss Bueckers wears what she likes.”

The Suit

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I remember that Delaney article.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by stacks of laundry and half-finished notes for another feature, when I saw her face staring back at me from the cover rack at the corner store.

The photo was grainy, clearly taken mid-laugh at some event, but it didn’t matter. The suit did.

It was black, fitted, a little too big at the shoulders. Her hair slicked back, cigarette between her fingers, grin sharp enough to draw blood.

The kind of picture that makes the world nervous for all the wrong reasons.

I bought three copies. I told myself it was for work.

Colleen was on the couch when I got back, eating cereal straight from the box.

“Another one, Azzi?”  “They’re saying she’s sleeping with women now”  “And?” “That’s breaking news” “Everything’s breaking news with that girl”

I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table. 

“Azzi, you gonna call her?” “I don’t even know if she remembers me” “She called you, didn’t she?” “Once” “Then she remembers”

The thing about Colleen is that she was always right, and she knew it.

I stared at the magazine again. 

The headline made my stomach twist. "WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?"

Like it was an accusation to be one of those things, or all of them.

“Leen, why do people care so much who she’s with?” “Because she’s famous, because she wears suits better than half the men in Hollywood. Take your pick.” “I just think it’s stupid.” “You also think she’s cute.”

That last part shut me up, and Colleen smirked into her cereal bowl.

“Oh, come on, Fudd. You’ve been acting weird since that interview.” “She’s… interesting” “She’s your type” “She’s not —” “You like bad girls”

She said it like it was a fact, not a confession. 

That night, after Colleen fell asleep on the couch, I found the number from the call she’d made — scribbled on the back of one of my reporter’s notebooks. 

Just a number and a first name: Paige.

I stared at it for twenty minutes before I dialed, and she picked up on the second ring.

“Rookie, you’re late.” “I didn’t know there was an appointment.” “There’s always an appointment with me, darling” “You read Sound & Scene?” “God, no. Do I look like someone who reads about herself?” “They’re saying you’re—” “What, gay? Straight? A men?”  (laughs) “Let them. It keeps me interesting” “You don’t care what they say?” “Care? Honey, I write half of it myself.”

She had the kind of charm that disarmed and infuriated you.

“I wanted to ask if you’d do another interview. To, I don’t know, clear the air” “You want to save me, rookie?” “I want to get the story right.” “Then don’t write it yet.”

There was music in the background, possibly someone strumming a guitar, laughter, the kind of noise that made it clear I’d interrupted something.

“I’ll call you when I’m bored.” “That could be never, Paige” “That could be tomorrow.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Colleen, half-awake, mumbled from the couch:

“You’re smiling” “I’m not.”

But I was.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features in  July 1986, Washington, D.C.

The second time I interviewed Paige Bueckers, she showed up at my apartment without warning.

It was a Tuesday, unseasonably hot even for D.C., the kind of heat that glues your hair to the back of your neck.

 I was barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, sitting on the floor editing copy for a profile that no one would read.

Then the doorbell rang.

I opened it, and there she was, five thousand miles from Los Angeles, leaning against the doorframe like she belonged there.

She had on a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses she didn’t need.

PB: You weren’t kidding about D.C. heat. AZ: You weren’t kidding about calling first. PB: I wanted it to be a surprise.

It was.

She said she’d been in town for a private event, that her hotel was “too quiet,” that she “missed the noise.” I told her I had work. 

She said, “Good, I’ll help you ruin it.”

She made herself at home, kicking off her boots near the door and dropping onto the couch like she’d lived there for years. I fetched the recorder out of habit, mostly to keep my hands busy.

PB: You always record your houseguests? AZ: Only the famous ones.

I pressed play.

AZ: Everyone’s talking about you again. PB: Still? God, I thought they’d moved on to the next tragedy by now.

She grinned, then leaned back, eyes half-lidded.

AZ: You know what they’re talking about. PB: My sparkling personality? AZ: Your sexuality. PB: Ah, yes. 

She said it lightly, but the air shifted. 

I asked if she wanted to clarify any of the rumors. She smirked.

PB: Why would I? AZ: Because people are speculating. PB: That’s what people do when they’re bored. AZ: Do you ever get tired of being misunderstood? PB: No. It’s better than being understood.

She said it with that same careless humor, but her voice caught a little at the end. I wasn’t sure if she noticed.

AZ: You could always just tell them. PB: Tell them what? That I don’t care which bathroom mirror I’m looking in when I put on eyeliner?

She laughed after, self-aware.

PB: No one wants honesty from a rock star. 

I asked if she thought she owed the truth to her fans.

PB: I owe them the music. The rest is none of their business.

She stood, restless, pacing the small space between my couch and the window.

PB: You want to know more about me? Listen to the next album. AZ: I’d rather hear it from you. PB: And ruin the mystery? Never.

I tried a different angle.

AZ: So you don’t deny it — that you’ve been with men and women? PB: Jesus, rookie (laughs) Why are you keeping score? AZ: It’s part of my job. PB: You have a weird job.

She leaned against the window.

PB: You really think that matters? AZ: To some people, yes. PB: Then that’s their problem, not mine.

She looked out toward the street

PB: See, that’s what I mean. Why do you care so much? (turns back to me)  Why does anyone?

I didn’t have an answer.

We moved from talk of gossip to talk of clothes, which, for Paige Bueckers, seemed to amount to the same thing.

AZ: You caused a stir with that suit. PB: Which one? AZ: The black one, the charity gala. PB: Oh, right. That one. (laughs)

She flopped back on the couch.

AZ: Why did you wear it? PB: Because I wanted to. AZ: That’s it?

PB: Yeah. It made me look cool.

I blinked.

AZ: That’s not — that’s not an answer. PB: Sure it is. You just wanted a different one.

Then she tilted her head, studied me for a beat that lasted too long.

PB: Do you think I looked cool?

There was no safe way to answer.

AZ: I — it’s not about— PB: I think you think I looked cool.

She smiled like she’d won something.

PB: People make such a fuss about clothes. I wear what makes me feel good. If it’s a suit, great. Half the men at that party looked like penguins. At least I looked like I knew what I was doing. AZ: So, the rumors about you and your bandmates — PB: Oh, god. Those again.

She rolled her eyes and lit another cigarette.

PB: For the record, I’ve never had anything with K.K. or Nika. Not my style. AZ: What is your style? PB: Complicated (grinning)  And before you ask — no, I’ve never hooked up with the guys from the band either. Artists are the worst people to date.

AZ: You’re an artist. PB: Exactly. I wouldn’t date me either. AZ: Good self-awareness.

Then she leaned forward, grin softening into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

PB: Would you?

Before I could respond, my elbow caught the recorder, sending it clattering off the table. The tape jammed, spinning helplessly.

PB: (laughing) Careful, rookie. You’ll lose all your evidence.

Editor’s Note (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

The tape ends there.

For years, I told myself it was an accident. That I’d hit the recorder by mistake, that it had nothing to do with the heat in the room or the way she was looking at me.

Truth is, Paige never broke eye contact the entire time. And every question I asked, she answered like it was foreplay. 

When the tape died, she asked if I wanted to go out for a drink.

Girls wearing Ties 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I told her no.

When she asked if I wanted a drink, I said I didn’t, that I had work, that it was late.

 She laughed, said, “Suit yourself,” and left me standing in the quiet. I remember thinking that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

A week later, I saw her again — not in person, but on glossy paper, under a headline that said “Bueckers Turns Heads in D.C.”

The photo stopped me cold. 

She was at some party uptown, the kind with champagne towers and people who used “darling” as punctuation, like Paige did. 

She was wearing what might once have been a white dress shirt, though calling it that feels generous. The fabric clung to her skin like humidity, transparent under the camera flash. 

No bra and no apologies. A black tie hung loose around her neck, like she’d stolen it from someone and never planned to give it back.

I remember feeling heat rise through me. Not shame exactly, but something familiar.

I’d grown up in Catholic schools, plaid skirts and confession booths, and of course: black cotton ties.

When I decided to write this book, I didn’t know how to talk about things like that. My sexuality isn’t really the subject here, but it’s part of the story. 

It always was.

In college, at St. John’s, it wasn’t uncommon for girls to test the limits of what “friendship” meant. You kissed in the dark and prayed in the morning. 

We didn’t really call ourselves anything, like the girls know days do, we didn’t have words that felt safe enough to use. 

But we understood what it was, at least I did.

By the time I moved out, I thought I’d grown out of it. 

I told myself that I liked men, or at least the idea of them. 

Colleen, my roommate, had always known better. One hazy afternoon after my twenty-first birthday, somewhere between laughter and the taste of cheap gin, we finally said it out loud:

“I think I’m gay, Azzi.” “You’re not.” “Yes I am. And so are you.” “Fuck,” I said, “you’re probably right. Pass me the gin.”

We never crossed that line — she wasn’t my type, and I wasn’t hers — but we lived in the same quiet code. Two women who never dated men, and never bothered to explain why.

Someone like Paige couldn’t have hidden if she’d tried. 

She was too bright, too unguarded. 

Lord, she didn’t seem afraid of being seen, she didn’t seem afraid of anything. 

There was danger in that, not the kind that warns you away, but the kind that pulls you closer.

That picture haunted me for days. 

The looseness of the tie, the confidence of her posture, the sheer, shameless joy of looking like herself. 

I told myself I was fascinated by her freedom, not by her. 

And maybe that’s when I started wanting her.

Or maybe I just wanted to understand her.

That same week, an envelope arrived at my office. 

My name typed on the front, her handwriting scrawled across the back. 

Inside was a single page:

Hey rookie, Heard you’re still mad at me for not giving you better quotes. I’ll make it up to you. Come to the album launch — 9 p.m.,  The Green Room, Friday. I promise to behave for five minutes, maybe ten if you’re wearing something short. Also, track seven’s about you. Don’t panic. — P

I must have read that note a dozen times.

Then I looked at Colleen and said, “If she asks me for a drink again, I’m going.”

And I did.

Preface to the The Burning Red Album Launch Interview  (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

When I wrote this piece, I thought Burning Red would be big.

I didn’t realize it would be immortal.

It went on to sell thirty-five million copies, win every award imaginable, and turn Paige Bueckers from a cult phenomenon into the face of an era. 

I can still recite half the track list from memory.

I remember the sweat-sweet air of that night, the crush of people, the champagne flutes balanced on amplifiers. 

Even then, before the first note played, you could feel history about to happen.

The Burning Red Album Launch

August 1986 — The Green Room, Washington D.C. By Azzi Fudd for CBS Features

There are parties, and then there are coronations disguised as parties.

The Burning Red launch was the latter.

The Green Room was packed shoulder to shoulder with producers, critics, and people who’d managed to convince security that they were insiders. 

And in the center of it all: Paige Bueckers.

White T-shirt, half-tucked, sleeves rolled, the faint smear of eyeliner turning her eyes into something feral. 

AZ: Congratulations. Big night. PB: Feels small in here, doesn’t it?  AZ: You knew this record would be big. PB: I knew it would be mine. Big’s a side effect, darling.

She grinned and took a sip of whatever was in her glass, something crimson that matched the album art.

AZ: The title, Burning Red — what does it mean? PB: Passion, anger, heat. Everything that makes you stupid and alive at the same time. AZ: That’s… broad. PB: So’s life, rookie.

She said it fondly now; the nickname had stuck.

AZ: You’ve talked before about not liking labels. The songs on this album sound like you’re trying to outrun them. PB: That’s close. I wanted to write about feeling, not form. Everyone’s always asking who I love, what I am. I just wanted to talk about the way it feels when you want something.

She gestured toward her hand, wrapped in a bandage speckled with tiny drops of blood, the aftermath of blisters earned from playing too long.

PB: See that? That’s passion. But it’s the only thing that makes art worth doing.

For a moment she looked almost serious, eyes wide and bright.

AZ: Do you think passion always has to hurt? PB: God, I hope so. Otherwise what’s the point?

Someone called her name from across the room, she waved them off.

PB: People think passion is romantic. It’s not. It’s wanting without permission.

She laughed, a quick spark to break the tension.

PB: Don’t quote that. It sounds too honest. AZ: I’m definitely quoting that. PB: Knew you would.

She drained her glass, already half-turned toward the stage where her band was assembling.

The noise around us kept swelling, but Paige stayed where she was, one hand hooked through a belt loop, watching the chaos 

AZ: You’ve seen the critics tonight. PB: They say a lot of things. AZ: You read them?

PB: I tell people I don’t. But I do. (shrugs) There’s this guy from Melody Maker. He called me “a hurricane”. I liked that.

She looked almost shy admitting it, eyes down, thumb tracing the lip of her glass. 

AZ: It must feel good, though. Hearing people get it. PB: Yeah (smiles small) It feels… good.

She finished her drink and reached for a fresh one from a passing tray, holding it out to me.

PB: Come on, rookie. Celebrate a little. AZ: I don’t really drink. PB: You didn’t last time either

I hesitated, then took the glass. 

The liquid was sharp, sweet, the kind that warms too fast. Paige clinked hers against mine.

PB: To bad ideas. AZ: You have a lot of those? PB: Enough to keep life interesting. AZ: Doesn’t that get reckless? PB: Reckless is underrated. You can’t live carefully and expect to make art.

She laughed, but there was a flicker of something tired behind it.

AZ: You’re always drinking something. PB: Vices are fine. Keeps the hands busy. (beat)  Don’t look at me like that, rookie. I’m not a cautionary tale yet.

I didn’t look away.

Editor’s Note — added 2025

Written by: Azzi Fudd

She only played the first five tracks that night. 

The rest of the album, including “Hysteria,” the song she said was about me, was held back until release week. 

After the interview, she pulled me into a quick hug before heading backstage. I remember the heat of the room, the buzz of champagne, the way her hand grazed the hem of my skirt.

“Nice outfit,” she murmured, low enough that only I heard. “Dangerous for a journalist.”

I laughed, nervous, dizzy. 

She didn’t move her hand right away.

“So,” she said, voice close enough that her breath brushed my cheek, “you gonna keep judging my drinking, or are you gonna have another with me after this?”

I said something useless like, “You still owe me the rest of the album.”

She smiled. “Then let me play it for you. Privately.”

She never waited for an answer.

She just slipped back toward the lights, leaving me standing there with a half-empty glass.

Private Listening 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

People always ask when the line blurred.

When I stopped being the journalist who covered Paige Bueckers and became the journalist Paige Bueckers would let cover her.

I usually say it was the Burning Red cover story — the first “real” one, the one that got me a byline big enough to live on its own line of the magazine. 

But the truth? The line blurred that night in the green room.

Because after that night, Paige never gave another interview to anyone else, not once.

From that moment on, every quote, every confession, every word the world read from her came through me. 

She’d call and say, “Rookie, I’ve got something new,” and that was that. 

We were tethered: her voice and my pen, my pen and her name.

That’s how you build a mythology: one voice to sing, one to translate.

That night, I remember tugging the hem of my skirt lower, the fabric sticking to my skin in the humidity. 

I remember thinking that I should leave, that my job was finished, that this woman was dangerous in every way a woman could be.

Then the door opened.

I heard her before I saw her — laughter, the scrape of boots against concrete, then the sharp click of the door closing behind her. 

She didn’t speak right away.

When I turned, she was leaning against the wall, hair damp with sweat, T-shirt clinging to her shoulders. Her lipstick had bled a little at the corner of her mouth.

We stared at each other.

“You stayed,” she said finally. “You asked me to.” She smiled. “You don’t always do what I ask.” “I’m learning.”

She took a few steps forward, unhurried, until the air between us shifted from professional to something else.

There’s no graceful way to describe what happened next.

She didn’t ask. She moved like someone who already knew the answer.

My back hit the wall, and I remember thinking: This is going to ruin me.

I’d been with women before, but Lord, Paige Bueckers was something else entirely.

The taste of her, the sound of her breath between laughs, the smell of gin when she kissed my body.

Afterward, I kept waiting for guilt to arrive, for professionalism to click back into place, for the rational voice in my head to remind me that this was reckless.

 It never did.

Paige sat down on the couch, T-shirt bunched at her ribs, one knee pulled up. 

“You okay, rookie?” “Yeah,” I said, but it didn’t sound like me. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not.”

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaled, and said, almost to herself, “Maybe this is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.”

And somehow, I believed her.

Paige was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair falling into her face, a small bruise already blooming at the edge of her collarbone.

I’d pulled on one of her robes, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. 

My body didn’t feel like mine at that moment

Paige glanced at me and smiled.

“You still nervous?” she asked. “Should I be?” “Probably.”

She leaned over the side of the couch, picked up her guitar, and started tuning it by instinct. 

“I said I’d play you the rest of the album,” she said. “Might as well start with your track.” I laughed, or tried to “You named a song for me?” “It’s about you, not for you.”

Then she started to play, and then she started playing Hysteria.

The melody was quiet at first, the kind that sneaks up on you. But the lyrics were what stopped me:

I want to touch you, but I know that when I do, you’ll be the only thing I want to touch. When I get my hands on you, I know that I will, I’ll never let go, even once.

It was serendipity, and it was surrender.

She looked at me while she sang, not performing, just telling the truth in her own language. 

And I understood, then, that this wasn’t flirtation or even her usual rebellion. In fact, it may be the most honest thing she’d ever done.

When Hysteria was released, critics called it “a generational anthem of chaos and hunger.” They said it captured the ache of the 80s youth, the fire of desire, the urgency of being alive.

They were right about the hunger, but they never knew what it was for.

Hysteria wasn’t about love or fame or self-destruction. It was about Paige Bueckers deciding, for once, to be reckless enough to commit to something.

Because commitment, for her, was the wildest act of all.

After that night, she never sat for another interviewer, and after that song, she never wrote a love track that wasn’t about me.

People have written essays about her lyrics for decades, tracing themes, theories, muses. 

Maybe this book will be their final confirmation.

What I do know is that Hysteria wasn’t written for the world. It was written for me.

Excerpt from “THE GIRL WHO WON’T TALK”

By Megan Carlisle for Rolling Stone, February 1987

It’s been six months since the release of Burning Red, and Paige Bueckers has officially entered that rare stratosphere reserved for artists whose names don’t need last names anymore.

Her single “Hysteria” has gone platinum four times over, her tour sold out before it even began, and her band Sherry Bomb has become a household name from Minneapolis to Madrid.

But for all her omnipresence, Bueckers herself has vanished from public view.

Requests for interviews have been met with polite refusals, or complete silence. A representative from her label confirmed that she’s “focusing on writing.” 

When pressed, the rep quoted Paige herself:

“If you want to know what I have to say, listen to my music, or wait until I have something to tell Azzi.”

It’s not unusual for artists to have preferred outlets, but this is… unprecedented.

Azzi Fudd, a young correspondent for CBS Features, has been the sole journalist granted access since the album’s release. 

Every word the world has heard from Paige Bueckers since 1986 has passed through Fudd’s pen.

Rumors, naturally, have followed.

Some insiders suggest the two share “a friendship that’s become creatively symbiotic.” Others whisper it’s simply business, Bueckers trusting the one writer who doesn’t ask the wrong questions. 

A few, with gossip in their eyes, wonder aloud if there’s something more there.

Whatever the reason, the effect is the same: Paige Bueckers has rewritten the rules of fame, choosing silence and one singular voice to speak for her.

Introduction 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When I started writing this, I told myself it was research.

Looking at it now, it isn’t. It’s archaeology.

Every interview, every article, every late-night phone call that turned into a quote — they’ve all been dug up, and held to the light again. This isn’t the story of Sherry Bomb, or of the girl who defined a generation of rock music. 

It’s the story of the woman who lived underneath the noise, and the younger woman who tried, very poorly, to keep her out of the fire.

In 1985 I was twenty-two, a year out of college. I worked in the cultural desk of CBS Features, which sounded impressive until you saw the paychecks. 

I spent most days transcribing other people’s interviews, listening to the professionals talk over me, and trying to remember whether I actually liked journalism or if I just liked proximity to interesting people.

Then they asked me to profile Paige Bueckers.

At the time, Paige was the name on every magazine cover: the lead singer of Sherry Bomb, the band that had turned the Reagan years into a riot.

She was twenty-five, newly platinum, and infamously difficult. 

“You’re doing Paige?” my editor asked, half-smiling, half-worried.  “Apparently,” I said. “You know she doesn’t talk to people.”  “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

That was the bravest thing I’d ever said, and possibly the dumbest.

I was chosen precisely because I had no reputation for asking the wrong questions (mainly because I had no reputation at all).

At that time, what I knew about her could fit on the back of a cigarette pack.

She drank gin straight, smoked like she was paid for it, and she dressed like a man who’d stolen a woman's wardrobe.

She was, depending on who you asked, either the future of rock or its funeral.

Rolling Stone had called her “If David Bowie and Joan Jett had a daughter, she’d look like this.”

She was too pretty to be taken seriously, too bold to be ignored, and too androgynous before the word was fashionable.

I was told she hated interviews.

That she’d walked out of Time, and told MTV to go fuck itself. So when my editor said, “She asked for someone new,” I thought it was another myth.

“Maybe she just wants a clean slate,” Colleen said while I tried on outfits.  “Or a new victim,” I said. “Don’t fall in love with her,” she warned.  “I won’t.”

I did. But that comes later.

Paige spoke in riddles, like she was bored of being understood, and every question I asked, she turned into something else. 

When I asked about her stage presence, she talked about pirates. 

When I asked about fame, she talked about freedom.

I wrote the piece that week, filed it on time, and thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

This book began, I suppose, with that first conversation — a few hours in a hotel suite in Los Angeles, July 1985. 

What follows is not a biography. It’s part recollection, part documentation, and part apology for the things I never printed and the things I did.

There will be pages from interviews, letters, fragments of songs, and pieces of the world that existed around her.

Some of them are mine, some are hers, and some belong to no one anymore.

I am not here to explain Paige Bueckers, this would be impossible.

I’m here to remember her.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features — July 20, 1985, Los Angeles, California

The first thing you notice about Paige Bueckers is that she doesn’t notice you.

At least, not right away. 

She wears black jeans torn at the knees, a sleeveless white shirt with the words Sherry Bomb scribbled across it in red marker — her own handwriting, she tells me later — and a leather jacket that looks older than both of us.

There’s a cigarette behind her ear, a silver ring on every other finger, and a thin gold chain tucked under her shirt. The only makeup she wears is a streak of eyeliner smudged across the corner of one eye.

Her hair is pale and sharp, bleached too many times.

She sits cross-legged on the hotel sofa, sipping a drink that looks like water and smells like gin.

I set my recorder on the table between us, and she grins.

AZ: You don’t usually do interviews. PB: I don’t usually do mornings either. But here we are. AZ: It’s two in the afternoon. PB: Morning is a state of mind.

She laughs at her own joke and gestures toward the window.

PB: See that? It looks hot enough to melt the whole city. AZ: You like it here? PB: Not really. I like the noise, though. You can’t hide much when everything’s loud.

She plays with the edge of her drink, tracing the rim, and watches me like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.

AZ: You’ve been on tour for almost two years straight. Do you ever get tired of being loud? PB: Sometimes. (pauses)  But silence’s worse. 

When she lights a cigarette, she offers me one, even after I tell her I don’t smoke.

PB: You should learn. It makes your hands look interesting.

Paige is impossible to categorize.

She moves between masculine and feminine the way other people switch guitars, instinctively.

AZ: People call you a mystery. PB: People call me all sorts of things. AZ: Does it bother you? PB: Only when they’re right.

We talk about the band — Sherry Bomb — and she mentions the guitarist, KK, with a kind of affectionate exasperation.

The drummer, Nika, she calls “family.” 

For someone who supposedly hates interviews, Paige was generous with words.

About twenty minutes in, I ask the question I’m supposed to ask: 

AZ: What scares you?

She leans back, exhales smoke, and smiles like she’s been waiting for it.

PB: I love sharks. AZ: Sharks? PB: Yeah, they never stop moving or they die. (pauses) Love pirates, too.

There it is, the first derailment. I don’t understand yet that Paige does this when she doesn’t want to answer honestly.

AZ: Pirates? PB: Think about it. No one ever knew what to call them: men, women, thieves, gods (grins) I like that.

This, apparently, is her idea of small talk.

AZ: So you see yourself as a pirate? PB: Something like that.

I ask her about fame, and for the first time, she looks tired.

PB: Fame’s like drinking salt water, darling. You think it’s going to help, but it just makes you thirstier.

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

Later, she asks if I want to hear something new.

From a table covered in cassette tapes, she picks one up, slides it into a tape deck, and presses play.

 The song that fills the room is rough, and she watches me listen.

PB: Be honest. Is it any good? AZ: It hurts a little.

She smiles again and leans forward to stub out her cigarette.

PB: You’re not like the others. AZ: What others? PB: The ones who write about me. AZ: You’ve only just met me. PB: Exactly.

She finishes her drink, stands, and disappears into the next room. I can hear her humming from behind the door, a melody without words.

When she returns, she hands me a folded napkin. Inside it, there’s a single line written in smudged ink:

The sea doesn’t scare me. Drowning does.

“Quote that,” she says. “It’ll make me sound mysterious.”

When Paige comes back from the next room, she’s lost the jacket and the shoes.

Barefoot, tank top hanging loose, a new drink in hand, something neon this time. 

Her hair falls in her face, and she doesn’t bother to fix it. 

She drops onto the couch beside me — closer than before — and points at my tape recorder.

PB: Is that thing still on? AZ: It should be. PB: Good. I like the sound of my own voice.

She laughs at that.

AZ: Your manager said you hated interviews. PB: I do (grinning) But I like you.

I tell her she’s not supposed to flirt with journalists.

PB: Who made that rule? AZ: Common sense. PB: You think I’ve ever had that?

It’s ridiculous how bright she is when she laughs.

AZ: What do you get out of interviews, then? PB: Amusement, sometimes a headline.

She watches me scribble that down.

PB: You’re really writing that? AZ: It’s a good line. PB: I have better ones.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, waiting for me to ask.

I don’t. I just stare until she laughs again, softer this time.

PB: Okay, okay. “I don’t want to be remembered; I want to be replayed.” That one’s free.

I tell her it sounds rehearsed.

PB: So what? Everything worth saying should be.

She takes another sip, then eyes me curiously.

PB: You don’t look like a reporter. AZ: What do I look like, then? PB: A school-teacher, or a nun who lost her faith.

I raise an eyebrow, pretending not to smile.

AZ: You’ve met a lot of nuns, have you? PB: Catholic school dropout. Twelve years of guilt (grinning) Want to compare notes?

I laugh at that.

AZ: What do you actually want people to know about you? PB: Nothing (pauses) Maybe that I’m funnier than they think.

And she is. 

AZ: People say you take yourself too seriously. PB: I’m the least serious person I know  (leans closer)  You’re the serious one. I can tell. AZ: I’m just doing my job. PB: Exactly.

Her knee brushes mine barely. She notices, of course. She notices everything.

PB: Relax, rookie. I’m not gonna corrupt you. 

I’m glad my recorder catches the silence that follows, because I have no idea what to say. 

She laughs again, and reaches over to steal my pen. She spins it between her fingers like a drumstick.

PB: You don’t write like a rookie, though. I read that piece you did on the D.C. punk scene. AZ: You read my article? PB: Yeah. I liked how you made it sound like it mattered (shrugs)  No one writes like that anymore. Everyone’s too busy being clever.

That surprises me more than anything she’s said all day.

AZ: And what are you busy being? PB: Bored (smiles)  Entertain me.

I ask about her music instead, what she’s trying to say with it.

She groans dramatically, sinking into the couch.

PB: Oh, you’re one of those journalists. Always looking for meaning. AZ: I like words. PB: I like noise (grins)

She toasts me with her glass. I don’t clink back.

She asks about me. No one ever does.

PB: So, Washington girl, right? You said D.C.? AZ: Born and raised. PB: You like it? AZ: It’s home. PB: Sounds boring.

I tell her I like boring.

PB: That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

She’s laughing when she says it, but something in her eyes softens.

PB: You know, you look like you belong in the seventies. AZ: Is that a compliment? PB: Depends. Did you like the seventies?

The recorder hums.

PB: Tell me something. Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not curious about me?

I answer before I think.

AZ: Are you always this arrogant? PB: Only when I’m right.

Editor’s note (added 2025) Written by: Azzi Fudd

At this point in the tape, there’s laughter. Then a pause, then the sound of Paige asking me if I want another drink. 

The rest of the tape is static, but I remember how it ended: she walked me to the elevator barefoot, humming something under her breath.

When I asked if I could call her again for follow-up questions, she said, “You won’t have to. I’ll find you.”

She did.

The Headline

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The article came out three weeks later under the headline “Paige Bueckers: a Little Bit of Heaven (and Hell).”

It ran four pages in CBS Features’ August issue, accompanied by a photograph that still makes me wince: me sitting on the hotel sofa, in a godawful outfit notebook in hand, Paige mid-laugh beside me, her arm draped over the back of the couch like we were old friends.

It was the first interview she’d given in nearly a year, and the only one that didn’t end in an argument. 

The piece was passed around newsrooms like gossip: “You got her to talk?” “How the hell did you manage that?”

The editor called it “intimate.” I called it “lucky.”

People liked that she sounded both self-destructive and self-aware, like she was in on the joke. 

I received a bouquet of red carnations from her publicist with a note that only said, “She doesn’t hate you. That’s a first.”

A week later, she called me herself.

“Hey, rookie,” she said. I could hear laughter and clinking glasses in the background. “Read your piece, it was good. I should fire you for that.”

She couldn’t fire me, obviously, but I didn’t know what to say, so I said thank you.

“Also,” she added, “you looked really cute in that picture.”

I didn’t say “thank you” to that, even though I wanted to.

Then she told me she was playing The Forum next Friday, that she’d leave two tickets at will-call.

“Bring a friend,” she said. “Or don’t”

I didn’t go.

I told myself it was because of work, or because Colleen couldn’t make it, or because I’d already spent too much time thinking about her voice.

The truth is simpler.

I was afraid of what might happen if she saw me again.

Excerpt from “PAIGE BUECKERS: WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?”

By R. M. Delaney

Rumor has it the rock world’s golden girl might be rewriting more than just the rulebook on sound.

At twenty-five, Paige Bueckers has already broken every boundary she could find: the charts, the stages, and, some whisper, the bedroom door.

Several sources claim the Sherry Bomb frontwoman has been seen “getting cozy” with both male and female companions after shows. One particularly enthusiastic roadie describes her as “one of the guys, and not in a bad way.”

But in an industry where sex sells and gender bends, Miss Bueckers might be selling confusion.

Last month, she appeared at a charity gala wearing a black tailored suit — tie, pocket square, the works — prompting one columnist to ask if “Paige wants to be Mick Jagger or marry him.”

When asked to clarify, her management declined to comment, stating only that “Miss Bueckers wears what she likes.”

The Suit

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I remember that Delaney article.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by stacks of laundry and half-finished notes for another feature, when I saw her face staring back at me from the cover rack at the corner store.

The photo was grainy, clearly taken mid-laugh at some event, but it didn’t matter. The suit did.

It was black, fitted, a little too big at the shoulders. Her hair slicked back, cigarette between her fingers, grin sharp enough to draw blood.

The kind of picture that makes the world nervous for all the wrong reasons.

I bought three copies. I told myself it was for work.

Colleen was on the couch when I got back, eating cereal straight from the box.

“Another one, Azzi?”  “They’re saying she’s sleeping with women now”  “And?” “That’s breaking news” “Everything’s breaking news with that girl”

I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table. 

“Azzi, you gonna call her?” “I don’t even know if she remembers me” “She called you, didn’t she?” “Once” “Then she remembers”

The thing about Colleen is that she was always right, and she knew it.

I stared at the magazine again. 

The headline made my stomach twist. "WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?"

Like it was an accusation to be one of those things, or all of them.

“Leen, why do people care so much who she’s with?” “Because she’s famous, because she wears suits better than half the men in Hollywood. Take your pick.” “I just think it’s stupid.” “You also think she’s cute.”

That last part shut me up, and Colleen smirked into her cereal bowl.

“Oh, come on, Fudd. You’ve been acting weird since that interview.” “She’s… interesting” “She’s your type” “She’s not —” “You like bad girls”

She said it like it was a fact, not a confession. 

That night, after Colleen fell asleep on the couch, I found the number from the call she’d made — scribbled on the back of one of my reporter’s notebooks. 

Just a number and a first name: Paige.

I stared at it for twenty minutes before I dialed, and she picked up on the second ring.

“Rookie, you’re late.” “I didn’t know there was an appointment.” “There’s always an appointment with me, darling” “You read Sound & Scene?” “God, no. Do I look like someone who reads about herself?” “They’re saying you’re—” “What, gay? Straight? A men?”  (laughs) “Let them. It keeps me interesting” “You don’t care what they say?” “Care? Honey, I write half of it myself.”

She had the kind of charm that disarmed and infuriated you.

“I wanted to ask if you’d do another interview. To, I don’t know, clear the air” “You want to save me, rookie?” “I want to get the story right.” “Then don’t write it yet.”

There was music in the background, possibly someone strumming a guitar, laughter, the kind of noise that made it clear I’d interrupted something.

“I’ll call you when I’m bored.” “That could be never, Paige” “That could be tomorrow.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Colleen, half-awake, mumbled from the couch:

“You’re smiling” “I’m not.”

But I was.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features in  July 1986, Washington, D.C.

The second time I interviewed Paige Bueckers, she showed up at my apartment without warning.

It was a Tuesday, unseasonably hot even for D.C., the kind of heat that glues your hair to the back of your neck.

 I was barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, sitting on the floor editing copy for a profile that no one would read.

Then the doorbell rang.

I opened it, and there she was, five thousand miles from Los Angeles, leaning against the doorframe like she belonged there.

She had on a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses she didn’t need.

PB: You weren’t kidding about D.C. heat. AZ: You weren’t kidding about calling first. PB: I wanted it to be a surprise.

It was.

She said she’d been in town for a private event, that her hotel was “too quiet,” that she “missed the noise.” I told her I had work. 

She said, “Good, I’ll help you ruin it.”

She made herself at home, kicking off her boots near the door and dropping onto the couch like she’d lived there for years. I fetched the recorder out of habit, mostly to keep my hands busy.

PB: You always record your houseguests? AZ: Only the famous ones.

I pressed play.

AZ: Everyone’s talking about you again. PB: Still? God, I thought they’d moved on to the next tragedy by now.

She grinned, then leaned back, eyes half-lidded.

AZ: You know what they’re talking about. PB: My sparkling personality? AZ: Your sexuality. PB: Ah, yes. 

She said it lightly, but the air shifted. 

I asked if she wanted to clarify any of the rumors. She smirked.

PB: Why would I? AZ: Because people are speculating. PB: That’s what people do when they’re bored. AZ: Do you ever get tired of being misunderstood? PB: No. It’s better than being understood.

She said it with that same careless humor, but her voice caught a little at the end. I wasn’t sure if she noticed.

AZ: You could always just tell them. PB: Tell them what? That I don’t care which bathroom mirror I’m looking in when I put on eyeliner?

She laughed after, self-aware.

PB: No one wants honesty from a rock star. 

I asked if she thought she owed the truth to her fans.

PB: I owe them the music. The rest is none of their business.

She stood, restless, pacing the small space between my couch and the window.

PB: You want to know more about me? Listen to the next album. AZ: I’d rather hear it from you. PB: And ruin the mystery? Never.

I tried a different angle.

AZ: So you don’t deny it — that you’ve been with men and women? PB: Jesus, rookie (laughs) Why are you keeping score? AZ: It’s part of my job. PB: You have a weird job.

She leaned against the window.

PB: You really think that matters? AZ: To some people, yes. PB: Then that’s their problem, not mine.

She looked out toward the street

PB: See, that’s what I mean. Why do you care so much? (turns back to me)  Why does anyone?

I didn’t have an answer.

We moved from talk of gossip to talk of clothes, which, for Paige Bueckers, seemed to amount to the same thing.

AZ: You caused a stir with that suit. PB: Which one? AZ: The black one, the charity gala. PB: Oh, right. That one. (laughs)

She flopped back on the couch.

AZ: Why did you wear it? PB: Because I wanted to. AZ: That’s it?

PB: Yeah. It made me look cool.

I blinked.

AZ: That’s not — that’s not an answer. PB: Sure it is. You just wanted a different one.

Then she tilted her head, studied me for a beat that lasted too long.

PB: Do you think I looked cool?

There was no safe way to answer.

AZ: I — it’s not about— PB: I think you think I looked cool.

She smiled like she’d won something.

PB: People make such a fuss about clothes. I wear what makes me feel good. If it’s a suit, great. Half the men at that party looked like penguins. At least I looked like I knew what I was doing. AZ: So, the rumors about you and your bandmates — PB: Oh, god. Those again.

She rolled her eyes and lit another cigarette.

PB: For the record, I’ve never had anything with K.K. or Nika. Not my style. AZ: What is your style? PB: Complicated (grinning)  And before you ask — no, I’ve never hooked up with the guys from the band either. Artists are the worst people to date.

AZ: You’re an artist. PB: Exactly. I wouldn’t date me either. AZ: Good self-awareness.

Then she leaned forward, grin softening into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

PB: Would you?

Before I could respond, my elbow caught the recorder, sending it clattering off the table. The tape jammed, spinning helplessly.

PB: (laughing) Careful, rookie. You’ll lose all your evidence.

Editor’s Note (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

The tape ends there.

For years, I told myself it was an accident. That I’d hit the recorder by mistake, that it had nothing to do with the heat in the room or the way she was looking at me.

Truth is, Paige never broke eye contact the entire time. And every question I asked, she answered like it was foreplay. 

When the tape died, she asked if I wanted to go out for a drink.

Girls wearing Ties 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I told her no.

When she asked if I wanted a drink, I said I didn’t, that I had work, that it was late.

 She laughed, said, “Suit yourself,” and left me standing in the quiet. I remember thinking that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

A week later, I saw her again — not in person, but on glossy paper, under a headline that said “Bueckers Turns Heads in D.C.”

The photo stopped me cold. 

She was at some party uptown, the kind with champagne towers and people who used “darling” as punctuation, like Paige did. 

She was wearing what might once have been a white dress shirt, though calling it that feels generous. The fabric clung to her skin like humidity, transparent under the camera flash. 

No bra and no apologies. A black tie hung loose around her neck, like she’d stolen it from someone and never planned to give it back.

I remember feeling heat rise through me. Not shame exactly, but something familiar.

I’d grown up in Catholic schools, plaid skirts and confession booths, and of course: black cotton ties.

When I decided to write this book, I didn’t know how to talk about things like that. My sexuality isn’t really the subject here, but it’s part of the story. 

It always was.

In college, at St. John’s, it wasn’t uncommon for girls to test the limits of what “friendship” meant. You kissed in the dark and prayed in the morning. 

We didn’t really call ourselves anything, like the girls know days do, we didn’t have words that felt safe enough to use. 

But we understood what it was, at least I did.

By the time I moved out, I thought I’d grown out of it. 

I told myself that I liked men, or at least the idea of them. 

Colleen, my roommate, had always known better. One hazy afternoon after my twenty-first birthday, somewhere between laughter and the taste of cheap gin, we finally said it out loud:

“I think I’m gay, Azzi.” “You’re not.” “Yes I am. And so are you.” “Fuck,” I said, “you’re probably right. Pass me the gin.”

We never crossed that line — she wasn’t my type, and I wasn’t hers — but we lived in the same quiet code. Two women who never dated men, and never bothered to explain why.

Someone like Paige couldn’t have hidden if she’d tried. 

She was too bright, too unguarded. 

Lord, she didn’t seem afraid of being seen, she didn’t seem afraid of anything. 

There was danger in that, not the kind that warns you away, but the kind that pulls you closer.

That picture haunted me for days. 

The looseness of the tie, the confidence of her posture, the sheer, shameless joy of looking like herself. 

I told myself I was fascinated by her freedom, not by her. 

And maybe that’s when I started wanting her.

Or maybe I just wanted to understand her.

That same week, an envelope arrived at my office. 

My name typed on the front, her handwriting scrawled across the back. 

Inside was a single page:

Hey rookie, Heard you’re still mad at me for not giving you better quotes. I’ll make it up to you. Come to the album launch — 9 p.m.,  The Green Room, Friday. I promise to behave for five minutes, maybe ten if you’re wearing something short. Also, track seven’s about you. Don’t panic. — P

I must have read that note a dozen times.

Then I looked at Colleen and said, “If she asks me for a drink again, I’m going.”

And I did.

Preface to the The Burning Red Album Launch Interview  (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

When I wrote this piece, I thought Burning Red would be big.

I didn’t realize it would be immortal.

It went on to sell thirty-five million copies, win every award imaginable, and turn Paige Bueckers from a cult phenomenon into the face of an era. 

I can still recite half the track list from memory.

I remember the sweat-sweet air of that night, the crush of people, the champagne flutes balanced on amplifiers. 

Even then, before the first note played, you could feel history about to happen.

The Burning Red Album Launch

August 1986 — The Green Room, Washington D.C. By Azzi Fudd for CBS Features

There are parties, and then there are coronations disguised as parties.

The Burning Red launch was the latter.

The Green Room was packed shoulder to shoulder with producers, critics, and people who’d managed to convince security that they were insiders. 

And in the center of it all: Paige Bueckers.

White T-shirt, half-tucked, sleeves rolled, the faint smear of eyeliner turning her eyes into something feral. 

AZ: Congratulations. Big night. PB: Feels small in here, doesn’t it?  AZ: You knew this record would be big. PB: I knew it would be mine. Big’s a side effect, darling.

She grinned and took a sip of whatever was in her glass, something crimson that matched the album art.

AZ: The title, Burning Red — what does it mean? PB: Passion, anger, heat. Everything that makes you stupid and alive at the same time. AZ: That’s… broad. PB: So’s life, rookie.

She said it fondly now; the nickname had stuck.

AZ: You’ve talked before about not liking labels. The songs on this album sound like you’re trying to outrun them. PB: That’s close. I wanted to write about feeling, not form. Everyone’s always asking who I love, what I am. I just wanted to talk about the way it feels when you want something.

She gestured toward her hand, wrapped in a bandage speckled with tiny drops of blood, the aftermath of blisters earned from playing too long.

PB: See that? That’s passion. But it’s the only thing that makes art worth doing.

For a moment she looked almost serious, eyes wide and bright.

AZ: Do you think passion always has to hurt? PB: God, I hope so. Otherwise what’s the point?

Someone called her name from across the room, she waved them off.

PB: People think passion is romantic. It’s not. It’s wanting without permission.

She laughed, a quick spark to break the tension.

PB: Don’t quote that. It sounds too honest. AZ: I’m definitely quoting that. PB: Knew you would.

She drained her glass, already half-turned toward the stage where her band was assembling.

The noise around us kept swelling, but Paige stayed where she was, one hand hooked through a belt loop, watching the chaos 

AZ: You’ve seen the critics tonight. PB: They say a lot of things. AZ: You read them?

PB: I tell people I don’t. But I do. (shrugs) There’s this guy from Melody Maker. He called me “a hurricane”. I liked that.

She looked almost shy admitting it, eyes down, thumb tracing the lip of her glass. 

AZ: It must feel good, though. Hearing people get it. PB: Yeah (smiles small) It feels… good.

She finished her drink and reached for a fresh one from a passing tray, holding it out to me.

PB: Come on, rookie. Celebrate a little. AZ: I don’t really drink. PB: You didn’t last time either

I hesitated, then took the glass. 

The liquid was sharp, sweet, the kind that warms too fast. Paige clinked hers against mine.

PB: To bad ideas. AZ: You have a lot of those? PB: Enough to keep life interesting. AZ: Doesn’t that get reckless? PB: Reckless is underrated. You can’t live carefully and expect to make art.

She laughed, but there was a flicker of something tired behind it.

AZ: You’re always drinking something. PB: Vices are fine. Keeps the hands busy. (beat)  Don’t look at me like that, rookie. I’m not a cautionary tale yet.

I didn’t look away.

Editor’s Note — added 2025

Written by: Azzi Fudd

She only played the first five tracks that night. 

The rest of the album, including “Hysteria,” the song she said was about me, was held back until release week. 

After the interview, she pulled me into a quick hug before heading backstage. I remember the heat of the room, the buzz of champagne, the way her hand grazed the hem of my skirt.

“Nice outfit,” she murmured, low enough that only I heard. “Dangerous for a journalist.”

I laughed, nervous, dizzy. 

She didn’t move her hand right away.

“So,” she said, voice close enough that her breath brushed my cheek, “you gonna keep judging my drinking, or are you gonna have another with me after this?”

I said something useless like, “You still owe me the rest of the album.”

She smiled. “Then let me play it for you. Privately.”

She never waited for an answer.

She just slipped back toward the lights, leaving me standing there with a half-empty glass.

Private Listening 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

People always ask when the line blurred.

When I stopped being the journalist who covered Paige Bueckers and became the journalist Paige Bueckers would let cover her.

I usually say it was the Burning Red cover story — the first “real” one, the one that got me a byline big enough to live on its own line of the magazine. 

But the truth? The line blurred that night in the green room.

Because after that night, Paige never gave another interview to anyone else, not once.

From that moment on, every quote, every confession, every word the world read from her came through me. 

She’d call and say, “Rookie, I’ve got something new,” and that was that. 

We were tethered: her voice and my pen, my pen and her name.

That’s how you build a mythology: one voice to sing, one to translate.

That night, I remember tugging the hem of my skirt lower, the fabric sticking to my skin in the humidity. 

I remember thinking that I should leave, that my job was finished, that this woman was dangerous in every way a woman could be.

Then the door opened.

I heard her before I saw her — laughter, the scrape of boots against concrete, then the sharp click of the door closing behind her. 

She didn’t speak right away.

When I turned, she was leaning against the wall, hair damp with sweat, T-shirt clinging to her shoulders. Her lipstick had bled a little at the corner of her mouth.

We stared at each other.

“You stayed,” she said finally. “You asked me to.” She smiled. “You don’t always do what I ask.” “I’m learning.”

She took a few steps forward, unhurried, until the air between us shifted from professional to something else.

There’s no graceful way to describe what happened next.

She didn’t ask. She moved like someone who already knew the answer.

My back hit the wall, and I remember thinking: This is going to ruin me.

I’d been with women before, but Lord, Paige Bueckers was something else entirely.

The taste of her, the sound of her breath between laughs, the smell of gin when she kissed my body.

Afterward, I kept waiting for guilt to arrive, for professionalism to click back into place, for the rational voice in my head to remind me that this was reckless.

 It never did.

Paige sat down on the couch, T-shirt bunched at her ribs, one knee pulled up. 

“You okay, rookie?” “Yeah,” I said, but it didn’t sound like me. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not.”

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaled, and said, almost to herself, “Maybe this is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.”

And somehow, I believed her.

Paige was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair falling into her face, a small bruise already blooming at the edge of her collarbone.

I’d pulled on one of her robes, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. 

My body didn’t feel like mine at that moment

Paige glanced at me and smiled.

“You still nervous?” she asked. “Should I be?” “Probably.”

She leaned over the side of the couch, picked up her guitar, and started tuning it by instinct. 

“I said I’d play you the rest of the album,” she said. “Might as well start with your track.” I laughed, or tried to “You named a song for me?” “It’s about you, not for you.”

Then she started to play, and then she started playing Hysteria.

The melody was quiet at first, the kind that sneaks up on you. But the lyrics were what stopped me:

I want to touch you, but I know that when I do, you’ll be the only thing I want to touch. When I get my hands on you, I know that I will, I’ll never let go, even once.

It was serendipity, and it was surrender.

She looked at me while she sang, not performing, just telling the truth in her own language. 

And I understood, then, that this wasn’t flirtation or even her usual rebellion. In fact, it may be the most honest thing she’d ever done.

When Hysteria was released, critics called it “a generational anthem of chaos and hunger.” They said it captured the ache of the 80s youth, the fire of desire, the urgency of being alive.

They were right about the hunger, but they never knew what it was for.

Hysteria wasn’t about love or fame or self-destruction. It was about Paige Bueckers deciding, for once, to be reckless enough to commit to something.

Because commitment, for her, was the wildest act of all.

After that night, she never sat for another interviewer, and after that song, she never wrote a love track that wasn’t about me.

People have written essays about her lyrics for decades, tracing themes, theories, muses. 

Maybe this book will be their final confirmation.

What I do know is that Hysteria wasn’t written for the world. It was written for me.

Excerpt from “THE GIRL WHO WON’T TALK”

By Megan Carlisle for Rolling Stone, February 1987

It’s been six months since the release of Burning Red, and Paige Bueckers has officially entered that rare stratosphere reserved for artists whose names don’t need last names anymore.

Her single “Hysteria” has gone platinum four times over, her tour sold out before it even began, and her band Sherry Bomb has become a household name from Minneapolis to Madrid.

But for all her omnipresence, Bueckers herself has vanished from public view.

Requests for interviews have been met with polite refusals, or complete silence. A representative from her label confirmed that she’s “focusing on writing.” 

When pressed, the rep quoted Paige herself:

“If you want to know what I have to say, listen to my music, or wait until I have something to tell Azzi.”

It’s not unusual for artists to have preferred outlets, but this is… unprecedented.

Azzi Fudd, a young correspondent for CBS Features, has been the sole journalist granted access since the album’s release. 

Every word the world has heard from Paige Bueckers since 1986 has passed through Fudd’s pen.

Rumors, naturally, have followed.

Some insiders suggest the two share “a friendship that’s become creatively symbiotic.” Others whisper it’s simply business, Bueckers trusting the one writer who doesn’t ask the wrong questions. 

A few, with gossip in their eyes, wonder aloud if there’s something more there.

Whatever the reason, the effect is the same: Paige Bueckers has rewritten the rules of fame, choosing silence and one singular voice to speak for her.

when she got to her childhood home, there was no one to greet her. it wasn’t shocking, and she didn’t take offense because she knew her father wasn’t a homebody and that he made it a point to eat lunch at the same place every single weekday. she just took her suitcase to her bedroom and taken a shower to wash the plane ride and uber off of her. 

when she got out, she looked in the mirror and decided she’d spend that week trying to bulk up. she wanted to be bigger. she was too thin and she drowned in her basketball uniform. she figured that would be her excuse for being away from home all week. 

she had no intention of making this a spring break to remember. she didn’t enjoy spending copious amounts of time with her father, or walking on eggshells around her mother. the gym would be the perfect safe space. 

by the time she’d showered and braided her hair and gotten dressed and put on deodorant , she’d heard rustling from the front of her house. 

her father was home. 

she took her time on the journey from her bedroom. she eyed the pictures on the walls, tried to remember every moment that each frame encapsulated. 

she paid special attention to her senior pictures. only four years had gone by, but alot changed between seventeen and twenty-one. she’d never wear jeans that tight again, would never be caught dead in a flannel that pink. 

“you were still just a kid, then.” she didn’t hear her father creep beside her, and she didn’t register his presence until his hand was clasped on her shoulder. “you wanted to wear sweats for your photos— fully ready to die on that hill.”

paige had learned to bite the bullet since she’d went to college. her freshman year, she beat the demons of bisexuality and dipped her toe into the men's section of every online shopping site. 

it was covid, she was a baby lesbian. she was stubborn and unwilling to listen to reason. she’d freshly figured out who she was, newly solidified herself within her own identity.

college did that to you, she learned. it had a way of thrusting you into yourself and you had no choice but to deal with it. 

when she came home for christmas, her mom asked what boy broke her heart. because, of course it had to have been heartbreak that spurred such a dramatic change. it was totally unexpected for her six-foot daughter, who was away at a D1 college on a full basketball scholarship, to realize she was a lesbian who preferred to present as masculine. 

she’d overheard her dad telling his girlfriend at the time that this was another one of her things. like when she dyed her hair purple, or took up painting.

she’d heard the you haven’t found the right man speech four times in the last four years. it wasn’t one she was interested in listening to again. 

“yeah, well.” she turned to face him, “did you enjoy your lunch?”

“uh, yeah, sorry i missed you getting here.” he fixed his gaze to the front of the home, “azzi brought you something.”

paige had no idea who ‘azzi’ was, or why she felt inclined to bring her food, so she cut her eyes at her father.

“azzi?” he repeated the name like that would ignite some sort of familiarity. when he realized that it wasn’t clicking, he sighed and gave a you’re so silly smile. “my girlfriend, paige.”

paige had honestly forgotten that she was supposed to be meeting her, but something tightened in her chest at the realization. 

“oh,” she forced herself to seem neutral because neutrality was better than dread. “right.”

she followed her dad down the rest of the hallway and thought about how there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old father still had girlfriends. 

she’d always told herself that she wouldn’t be like that. she wouldn’t have children of divorce or a plethora of exes. she wanted to get it right the first time. she wanted forever— she wanted a wife. 

the second they stepped into the kitchen, she realized that she was wrong. in actuality, there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old dad’s girlfriend was clearly too young. 

her father never brought home ugly women, so she’d expected this woman to be beautiful, but she wasn’t just beautiful, she was attractive.

she was tall, not as tall as paige, but tall. her hair was in a tight half-bun at the top of her head, but paige could tell she had thick curls. she had warm brown skin that flushed when she turned around and saw her boyfriend and his daughter. 

“hello—hi.” she’d stuck her hand out, “i’m azzi.”

azzi had a pretty smile. she had bucked teeth that sunk into her bottom lip while she waited for paige to take her hand.

she took it, and tried not to smile back at her. her hands were warm and soft, like she’d never known discomfort in her whole life. she was the one who moved their hands in a single up and down motion. it was firm and final and when she pulled her hand away, paige never wanted to touch her again.

she turned her attention to the plastic bag on the counter that held her to-go plate. 

“paige.” she didn’t mean to sound like a dick when she introduced herself but there was no point in an enthusiastic meet-and-greet. not when she’d be doing the same thing with someone else on thanksgiving. 

when she sat down at the kitchen table, paige had to force herself to sit with her legs closed. natural instinct told her to spread out and be comfortable, but she didn't want to be told to sit like a lady, so she crossed her ankles under the table, despite the fact that she was in pajama pants and a beater and there was no chance of someone looking up her skirt. 

“your dad’s told me alot about you.” she watched paige pop the styrofoam plate open. “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

paige nodded, never taking her eyes off the chicken and rice. 

something about this felt like uncharted territory. azzi wasn't following the script— her voice wasn't obnoxiously high, she wasn't fidgeting with her nerves. she was calm— too calm. she almost seemed indifferent.

luckily, her father's phone started ringing. it seemed that azzi had learned the everyone be silent until he’s done rule because she didn’t say a word. she just watched paige nibble at the food until—

“i gotta go…” of course he did. 

who would bob bueckers be if he wasn’t leaving his daughter with unfamiliar women? 

“it’s a work thing. they—” 

azzi cut him off with a raise of her palm. “it’s okay,” her smile almost seemed genuine, except her teeth were still in her mouth. “just go. me and paige can talk while i make dinner.”

paige shouldn’t care that her dad was leaving because she was supposed to be going as well. the gym was waiting for her. it didn't matter that her dad was taking the car, because she could uber… except she didn't want to go anymore.

all the more reason for her to get the hell out of there.

her dad leaned over the counter and pressed a kiss to azzi’s cheek, “we’ll go shopping monday, hun,” then, he wrapped his arms around paige. “glad you're here, p.”

paige let herself enjoy the hug, she savored that moment where no one cared what she was wearing, or how she was sitting and let herself melt into her dads arms. “love you, dad.” 

she meant it.

when he walked out the door, paige turned to azzi, who was doing something in the refrigerator.

“you just ate lunch,” azzi didn't turn around. “why you already making dinner?”

still in the fridge, azzi rummaged until she pulled out a concerningly large tub of butter. 

“your father wants duck.” she brought the container to the counter. ‘i don’t know how to cook duck, so i need time for trial and error.”

that was bullshit. her father was the one to cook in all of his relationships. he didn’t trust people to do it right, and he enjoyed listening to everyone tell him how talented he was. even if azzi was a cooker, she wasn’t doing it for paige’s dad.

she wouldn’t air her out. she didn’t care enough to do that, but paige had always been intrigued by liars. perhaps it was her own form of narcissism. 

she got up from the table, the goal not being to be closer, but to know more. the bar stool was near enough for paige to see everything. she didn’t know this woman. she needed proximity to learn her tells. 

“you cook for him alot?”

azzi dug through a drawer, pulling out a rubber spatula. “not really, no.”

paige was used to over-explaining and over-achieving. azzi seemed like she was more worried about ruining a bird than talking to paige. it was weird, the feeling that she was the one trying to hard for something that wouldn’t last. 

she dug her heels into the step of the bar and tried to keep her discomfort under wraps. “why the special occasion?”

azzi shrugged, now armed with a butcher's knife. “dunno.” 

it was kind of scary, the way she was prepping and yet she didn’t even have the duck out. paige knew the knife wouldn’t be necessary until the bird was cooked, and that she shouldn’t apply the butter until the duck was stuffed. 

paige wanted to warn her. the usual willingness to let someone learn the hard way was nowhere to be found. that was scary enough for the conscious decision to let azzi learn the hard way regardless to be be made. 

paige pointed at herself, “for me?”

she thought, for a second, that she sounded like she wanted this. she worried that she sounded like she cared. which, she didn’t. she just felt a little bad. which was a sign of empathy. anyone would feel empathetic when watching a car crash. 

that’s what this was— azzi’s relationship with paige’s dad was a car crash in the making.  it would end the way they all did, except azzi was Different.

azzi shook her head, still not fucking looking at paige. she had no clue why she wanted azzi to look at her, but the disappointment in her chest was hard to ignore. 

“think i just wanted to busy myself. your dad says you’re hardly ever home when you’re home.”

she was doing it so she wouldn’t be bored, it had nothing to with paige or her father. azzi simply did not want to be bored. that was understandable. that was justifiable. paige knew nothing about the woman, but she had the feeling that she should never be bored. 

so what the fuck is she doing dating the most boring human on the planet?

it wasn’t paige’s business. she had no reason to want the answer to that question. so she nodded, once, and left her head hanging.

“yeah.” it was a small acknowledgment, enough to confirm paige’s future absence.

azzi laughed, quiet but not in a self deprecating way. like the situation was pathetic, not her need for entertainment. “so i’m going to butcher a duck.”

this is the end, paige thought. this is the end of whatever was going on here. 

she stood up and headed to the hallway, leaving the food and azzi behind.

“i’m going to the gym.”

by the time she heard, “have fun, p.” it was already too late to turn around and see if azzi looked as unbothered as she sounded

──

easter dinner was bound to be a disaster of drastic proportions. paige’s parents were those weird divorcees who got along well enough to spend the holidays together for the sake of kid. except, for the past few years, it always ended up feeling like they were only in the same room for paige’s detriment. 

not because they didn’t get along. that was never the issue. amy and bob made it a point to never argue in front of paige, as if that would have made her oblivious to their agony towards each other. no, these days, the issue was that they did not approve of paige’s Lifestyle Choices. 

when she came out as bisexual, neither of them seemed to care much. they probably thought it was one of paige’s phases, or that she’d end up with a man anyway. and then christmas 2020 happened, and they suddenly were enthralled with who paige planned to spend the rest of her life with. 

her mother had convinced her to curl her hair for the family photo instead of wearing a slickback bun. her father told her that there would be no suit because she and her mother always wore matching dresses. 

it had been nearly three years of biting her tongue— of wanting to crawl out of her skin for the sake of keeping the peace. paige knew that her parents didn’t like the way she dressed. or the way she talked, sat, and turned down male advances. 

and it wasn’t that she just rolled over and did what they wanted. it was just that trying to get them to understand that this is who she was took more than it was worth. 

paige’s step family, dan and taylor, never really said much during these meetings either. they’d just passively agreed with whatever amy was saying. they never really acknowledged paige, never wanted to know things about her and always declined the game tickets paige provided. 

they didn’t feel like family— none of them did. but then again, only family could make paige feel the way she did.

but this year, easter would be something different. azzi would be there, and paige knew she’d be more focused on the Difference She Could Not Explain than her mother.

her blended family never met up at anyone’s house. they’d always opted for neutral territory— whatever restaurant was open that holiday. 

the steakhouse had been reserved for easter. it wasn’t fine dining like her father loved, and it wasn’t homey the way her mother preferred. it was casual in a way that said we’re trying to get a star without seeming like we’re trying. 

her parents always reserved the same table. it was in the back with six chairs. paige sat beside azzi, who sat beside her father. her mother, step-dad, and step-sister all sat on the other side. 

they’d done their quarterly hello’s. amy smiled when she met azzi, but paige knew her mother’s disapproval when she saw it. azzi didn’t seem bothered by the awkwardness of it all. she shook everyone’s hand and smiled without her teeth. she was quiet and contained when anyone else would have let their nerves scream over the whole building. 

when the waiter asked for their drinks, the whole table asked for ice water. except paige, who requested sweet tea with lemon slices on the side.  she quickly realized her mistake when her father sucked in a harsh breath and her mother began to wave her hand. 

 “that’s okay, she’ll just have water.” she had her usual smile on her face, completely oblivious to the look on paige’s face. 

paige didn’t speak on her annoyance, but when the waiter left, her mom leaned forward and whispered, “i don’t know why you insist on making things so hard for everyone.”

paige didn’t know why she was whispering. there was no one near them, hardly anyone in the restaurant at all. it was a holiday, everyone was at home having a home cooked meal. 

she didn’t answer her mom, hoping that she would be left alone. of course, that was just too much like right, because her father chipped in. 

“yeah paige,” he was still nose deep in the menu, as if he was going to order something different this year. “everyone got water. why would you want the waiter to make a whole different drink?”

paige knew this wasn’t worth a clapback. she also knew it was just the beginning of her parent’s nitpicking, so she put her head down and physically retreated into herself. she should have just stayed in storrs, or went to kk’s house. she didn’t know why she always voluntarily put herself through this shit—

“maybe she just wanted something sweet.”

paige’s head popped up then. it was azzi who'd spoken up, brown eyes dead set ahead of her on amy. 

she’d hardly spoken to paige the entire week she’d been there. they’d been in the same house, yet paige made sure they were worlds apart. azzi had made no effort to know paige, and yet…

amy flushed beet red. she’d never been confrontational, never pushed the line on anything besides paige. azzi didn’t let up, though. she didn’t blink until paige’s mom buried her face in the menu and asked bob how work was going. 

dinner went the way it usually did. paige learned that azzi was an ER nurse, that taylor was set to start nursing school in a few months, and bob didn’t like his new assistant. 

it was all noise to paige.

maybe she just wanted something sweet.

azzi had no reason to pipe up, but she stood up for paige. anyone else would have just minded their business. they’d have probably felt bad, but told themselves that this was between parents and their child. but azzi…

it didn’t make sense. they never talked, and the one time they did, azzi seemed as disinterested as paige was pretending to be.  

but she spoke. and paige would spend the rest of spring break thinking about how azzi’s lips pushed out the word “sweet”.

she’d been playing with her veggies when her mother addressed her again. 

“paige, sweetie,” she tapped the prongs of her fork on the table “sit up. you look like a boy.”

she broke out of her comfortable position and leaned forward so that her ribs were pressed into the table and her feet were under her chair. she didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her mother. she just did what she was told and went back to her plate. 

still her mother continued. 

“and what’s with this outfit?” she waved her fork lazily in paige’s direction “i don’t know why you want to look like…”

paige knew what was coming. it happened every single time, and there was no way to avoid it besides re-becoming something she wasn’t. that wasn’t an option— cosplaying a girly bisexual would never be an option again. so paige just braced for impact. 

she dropped her fork and sat straight up. with her hands folded between her legs, she steeled her eyes on her mother. “like what, mom?”

“like a—” she lowered her voice, “like a lesbian.”

paige’s sighed. 

paige had never outright said i’m actually not bi, i'm a full blown ‘mo, but it didn’t take much to tell. her mother could read between the lines— everyone at that table was able to read between the fucking lines. 

“i’m just saying,” amy stabbed a piece of broccoli onto her fork, “you don’t have to broadcast it for everyone to see.”

“mom.” her monotone pitch wasn’t because she was forcing herself to not be upset, she’d just gotten bored of the same conversation every time she came home. “i’m not broadcasting anything i’m just—”

she was cut off by taylor. “you don’t have to argue all the time, paige.”

“i’m not arguing with her.” paige furrowed her brows, “i barely even said anything.”

“but you were going to,” her father chimed in now. “you know yourself, p.” 

“your mother just wants what’s best for you, paige.” dan didn’t look up from his plate when he decided to add his two cents. “making a scene all the time isn’t good for anyone.”

“how am i making a scene, though?” paige felt exhausted, even though she knew they were just getting started. “by dressing the way i want to— in clothes i feel comfortable in?”

amy sighed, setting her fork down and looking at paige again. “it’s just inconvenient for everyone when your comfort makes everyone else uncomfortable. who do you think you are to just force this on us for all these years?”

paige reared her head back, like she was dodging a punch. and maybe she actually was, because the words found her anyway. they rippled cross her face like the impact of an actual hit, taking over her whole being and making her head fuzzy. 

she should expect shit like this. her mother had wobbled on the line of passive aggressive to flat out homophobic for years, but something about tonight hurt a little worse. it usually felt like a punch to the gut, and paige had built an endurance to that. tonight, felt like a hook to the temple. 

she was dizzy and genuinely unsure of if she had the strength to walk away from this in one piece. 

everyone kept going, kept agreeing with amy and adding their own issues with paige into the mix, but she just sat there in her chair. she didn’t speak, she didn’t defend herself, she didn’t move— she couldn’t do much of anything besides try and keep her eyes from closing. 

if they closed, then paige would be crying.

she heard one voice through all of it. 

azzi. 

she was making an effort, paige assumed, but she was ultimately unsuccessful. even she wasn’t strong enough to cut through all the tension that spread over the table. she’d been saying paige’s dad’s name. over and over— like he was going to listen to her. he didn't listen though, no one ever did. so, azzi huffed out a tight line of air and sat back in her seat. 

paige guessed that this would be her leave— this conversation would be the reason she left. she’d probably say it was because she felt bad for paige, when in reality she was just leaving like everyone else. she’d make paige her scapegoat just like the rest of them. 

she was an idiot for thinking azzi would be anything different.

──

the next day, paige woke up before the sun and drove her dad’s car to the gym. her father was still asleep, as was azzi. she just left. her head was still hurting from the night before, her face still felt hot with embarrassment and tears. 

 she was leaving that night and she planned to stay away from her house until it was time to get her suitcases. she’d uber to the airport. she wasn’t telling anyone bye, or announcing her exit in any way, shape or form. 

somehow, someway, paige had lost her edge. she nearly lost herself at dinner, which was something that she didn’t let happen. she’d forged herself into steel years ago, and every time she prepared to return home, she hardened herself even more.

at dinner, she felt shame force itself into her gut and take her over. she’d known what the difference was, the only thing that had changed from the usual was the fact that she seemingly had someone in her corner. 

azzi. 

she was on paige’s side, which was new. but more than that, azzi had only known the version of paige that was built. she hadn’t known the version that had to be erased to get there. 

her mother had ripped that paige out and left her on the table for the vultures to get, and azzi had seen it. azzi watched as everyone picked paige apart and poked at her skeleton. there was nothing that could be done to come back from that. 

this woman— who wouldn’t even there for another three months— had seen paige. an outsider had seen it all. 

when this ended, she’d walk around with the knowledge that paige wasn’t steel. she’d know forever that there wasn’t a non-chalant bone in her body, and she almost cried when her mom hurt her feelings. 

paige left the gym praying that azzi went with her father to lunch. she couldn’t look at her.

when she got home, no one was there. it was a blessing. truly. she didn't stop in the kitchen, or look at the photos in the hallway. she beelined for her room, determined to be out of the house before azzi and her father got back. 

her bedroom door was closed. she didn’t close it when she left, which meant someone had been in her room. paige thought the cleaning lady probably left it open, even though she always told her dad to remind her that paige could clean her own room.

bob never cared to remember shit like that. he never cared to remember anything. 

only, he might have remembered this time. her room was just as she left it. her desk chair was still facing away from the desk, her duffel bag was still in the middle of the room and her bed was still unmade with the dent of her body molded in the mattress. 

but there was a bag. a single gift bag with no label on it. it was brown— not like a paper bag but something expensive that shined when paige turned the light on. there was no bow attached, no card tied to it’s handles. just a brown gift back placed dead center on the bench before her bed.

paige didn’t open it right away. she just stood there staring at it, like something would climb out of it on its own. she wondered who put it there and what was in it. bob was never one for spontaneous presents— he didn’t pay enough attention for shit like that. her mom wouldn’t be over their spat yet, so it wasn’t her. paige was pretty sure taylor and dan hated her, so not them either. 

there was azzi. over the past week, there had been azzi. but she didn’t know paige. paige didn’t even know if azzi liked her. so why would she get her a gift? but then again, why would azzi defend her?

the possibility jumpstarted paige’s anticipation enough for her to snatch the bag up and rip the ribbons that tied it shut. 

it was clothes, maybe three items. they were folded and stacked in the bag. on top of the top item, though there was a receipt. paige grabbed that first. 

POLO RALPH LAUREN ran across the top of the paper in big, bold letters. it was an expensive gift. too expensive for an ER nurse in minnesota. and there were multiple items, so paige decided it definitely wasn’t azzi. 

but then she looked at the bottom, where the card information and signature would have been and there it was. 

CUSTOMER: Azzi Fudd

************1857

azzi fudd. 

azzi had gotten the gift. for paige. 

paige dropped the receipt and dug the clothes out of the bag. the top item was heavy and thick. it was meant for cold weather. it was a deep red quarter button sweater. cable-knit. it felt expensive and intentional in paige’s hands. it was a men’s sweater, too. a women’s top would have a curve in the waist, and it would have been lighter. 

the second item was a pair of black pants. fancy— slacks or something like that.  the fabric wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t rough either. it was textured and smooth. these were made for men, too. the pockets were big. 

in the bottom of the bag, there was a package of briefs. a five pack of ralph lauren briefs.

there was no note, no explanation for why azzi had purchased men’s winter clothes for paige. the fact that she’d purchased anything for paige was deserved an explanation. but there was nothing. 

just clothes and a gift receipt.

FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND

as expected, paige’s dad wasn’t home when she got there. he was at lunch, same place as usual. paige wasn’t excited to see him, anyway. she wanted a shower and a nap and then to eat so that she wouldn’t have to leave her bedroom until the next day.

but, unexpectedly, someone was sitting on the living room couch with their back to the door. paige didn’t have to see their face to know who it was. she didn’t even have to open the door and enter the house to know. those curls were imprinted on her brain. 

her hair was half up-half down, the top secured to the base of her head with a white claw clip. her hair looked soft, moisturized by something too cultured for paige and her midwestern whiteness to know the name of. 

several deep breaths were needed before paige could open the door, but when the lock finally turned, azzi turned her head slowly, like there was no urgency to know who it was. 

she smiled the same way she did when she and paige first met, with her two front teeth pushing into her bottom lip. she had make-up on, a deep pink lined her lips while a lighter one covered the totality of her mouth. her lashes were longer— long enough to reach just under her brow bone. 

“you’re here.” azzi didn’t sound the way she did during spring break. she sounded relieved, almost. she’d been expecting paige. “your dad is having lunch, but he gave me a list.”

obviously, paige was missing something. she didn’t even have the brainwidth to try and figure it out. she was lost looking at azzi’s mouth as she spoke. her mouth and her perfect fucking teeth.

“uh…  list for—” she blinked out of her trance. “list for what?”

“for the barbecue?” azzi sounded like this was something paige was supposed to know. “amy's barbecue at the park tomorrow?”

paige felt her whole body kind of reset at the mention of her mother. it all came back to her. easter dinner. azzi’s gift. 

she didn't think azzi would even be a topic of conversation anymore, but here she was. 

“oh,” paige dropped her duffel at the entrance. “right.”

azzi stood from the couch and turned so she was facing paige completely. “do you need to do anything before we go or are you ready?”

“uh, nah.” paige looked around like a task would magically appear out of thin air. “we can go.”

azzi said nothing else. she just walked around the couch, grabbed her purse off the hook and opened the front door. on the way to the car, paige trailed behind her, watching the way her body moved with every step. 

she had a silk shirt on with no sleeves and an open back that showcased the muscles on her back like waves rippling under the skin. her jeans weren’t baggy, but they were loose like they were hanging off of the woman’s hips. 

azzi drove without the use of GPS. the drive wasn’t long, maybe 10 minutes. mitski sang about eggshells crumbling, and paige tried not to side-eye azzi. 

she felt an uncomfortable calmness in azzi’s car. she didn’t think twice about pushing the seat back so she could slouch and spread her legs. she wasn’t scared to have her phone laying her lap, or to keep her hair in it’s bun. with azzi, she didn’t have to have blonde waves cascading down her back, or perfect posture.

it was quiet besides the music, but not tense. that was the problem. paige wanted to talk— to converse and bond. she had questions, but something told her that conversation with azzi was dangerous for her.

the grocery store was busy, crawling with last minute shoppers grabbing hot dog buns and beers. paige and azzi were not those people. apparently, paige’s dad had left azzi with a list— written sloppily on what used to be an envelope.

paige was pushing the basket but azzi was leading. with one hand gripping the front of the cart, she guided them around. it was all going rather quickly. there was no pausing for long amounts of time, running her eyes over the shelves trying to decide what was needed. bob and his neuroticism had everything on the list specified down to the brand.

azzi pulled paige throughout the store, turning her head every now and then. she’d look at paige with raised brows and her chin tucked into her collarbone, and paige would nod, silently answering whatever question azzi was trying to ask.

they went like that until every item had been retrieved. it felt routine, like they’d done this every weekend.

unsurprisingly, the lines were filled and checkout would take longer than the actual shopping. that uncomfortable calmness was back.

“can i ask you something?” paige starting talking out of no where, causing azzi’s head to whip around so fast it looked like it hurt.

she was so fucking pretty. too pretty for bob— too pretty for anyone. no one would notice the things that paige noticed, they wouldn’t pay as much attention as she did. maybe that was the problem. maybe it was why azzi had barely spoken to paige that day, despite them having been together for over forty-five minutes.

either way, paige didn’t want silence anymore. she wanted to make the uncomfortable calmness a conversation.

azzi smiled her real smile. “yes.”

“that gift— the clothes,” paige looked for the rest of her question in azzi’s face and found nothing. “why’d you do that?”

“you deserve it.” it came out like it was the obvious answer. like azzi and paige weren't virtual strangers, and they had the kind of relationship where they gave each other random gifts for the simple fact that they deserved it.

it was absurd.

paige blinked. “what?”

azzi just looked at paige not angrily or annoyed, but with a tenderness that paige wasn't familiar with. “you deserve to feel comfortable in whatever you wear. your clothes don’t make me uncomfortable— they shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”

“oh.”

something about hearing those words, while azzi was looking at her like that, had paige at a loss for words.

she stared at azzi, who despite knowing nothing about paige, was capable of saying the one thing paige thought she’d never hear. she was an ocean of beautiful confusion, and suddenly, paige wanted to drown in her.

azzi kept her eyes on paige. she didn't push paige for a response, didn't say anything at all. she just kept fucking looking.

what was paige supposed to say? what could she say that wouldn’t make her seem like she’d been silently begging for this since she was nineteen?

the answer was nothing. this conversation had to end for the sake of paige’s pride.

she shook her head and tried to put some bass in her voice to counteract the softness that was flooding her. she failed miserably.

“why winter clothes?” her voice came out more choked and grovel-ly than prideful and indifferent.

she’d tried to sound like she didn't care, like she still had no skin in the game and nothing to lose. but she knew the look on her face said she had everything to lose. she just hoped that it didn't also say she was considering losing it in azzi.

the difference in azzi was becoming abundantly clear. it was sickening and it made paige’s head spin in the best way.

she watched azzi close her eyes and open them again. it wasn’t a blink. it was something slower and more intentional than that.

“bob told me about the christmas photo situation that happened a few years ago.” that smile stretched across azzi’s face once again. “i want you to like what you wear in the picture this year.”

of course he did. of course he’d told her about one the most embarrassing moments of paige’s life. he’d probably brought it up in casual conversation, too. it probably wasn’t that big of a deal to him. actually, paige knew it wasn’t. nothing was that big of a deal to her father.

azzi had got those clothes because she felt bad for paige. and if it was anyone else, paige would have gotten pissed off. she’d have demanded that azzi take the clothes back, and told her that she didn’t need her sympathy.

but something in paige lit up. something bloomed at the concept of having this woman’s sympathy. she could have just minded her business. she could have been like everyone else and pretended not to see what was going on between paige and her parents. but she didn’t.

she’d wear that outfit for christmas this year. she’d wear it all— down to the fucking briefs. she’d argue with her father and tell her mother to go to fucking hell, because azzi wanted her to like what she wore in the photo this year.

azzi was moving. it took four steps for her to get around the basket but she took another one anyway. she and paige were nearly chest-to-chest. “did they fit?”

paige almost didn’t hear a word she said. she was too busy watching azzi’s mouth as it moved. she thought she could feel the wind when azzi blinked. she was painfully aware of everything about the woman in front of her.

“huh?” paige felt hot, like her whole body was beet red with heat. she shoved her hands in her pockets to hide the way her fingers were practically twitching. “sorry i— what was your question?”

she wanted to touch. to tug at one of the curls that laid over azzi’s shoulder. she wanted to smear that pink across azzi’s mouth and kiss the mess away.

azzi didn’t seem to mind that paige was acting like she’d never experienced human interaction. she just shook her head and told paige it was okay before asking her question again.

“i asked if the clothes fit. the ones i got you.”

paige tried the clothes on as soon as she got to storrs. she’d stared at herself in the mirror and tried to figure out the soonest occasion that called for an outfit like that. she’d worn all 5 pairs of the briefs, some of them twice.

“oh, yeah.” she nodded. “yeah, they fit.”

azzi stepped even closer, forcing eye contact with paige. “you didn’t have to return anything?”

paige couldn't take eyes off of azzi’s. she didn't move away from her— she didn't want to.

“nothing.” she spoke lowly, like she wanted no one but azzi to hear her.

“that’s good.” azzi’s teeth poked into her bottom lip. “and you like them?”

paige wanted to laugh. what a ridiculous, basically rhetorical question.

“i love them.” she stood on her tippy toes and rocked back down onto her heels. she just needed movement, otherwise she’d physically jump out of her own body. “thank you.”

azzi kept smiling for a second before she spoke. “anytime, p.”

with that, azzi turned and pushed the basket. they still had a while before it was their turn, but paige was thankful for the separation.

the pull she was feeling towards azzi was beginning to to escalate. it started the second they met, and the proximity was only making it worse.

paige wanted to feel azzi. she needed to know the root of all that tenderness. she needed to know where the softness originated. then, maybe she’d know why she felt so drawn to her. maybe she’d be able to stop herself from doing something colossally stupid.

──

paige didn’t mean to get so drunk. 

really. 

she’d planned to go to the fourth of july party and take a few shots, maybe share a joint with some high school friends. she planned to have a good night— that’s the whole reason she went to the party. she didn’t want to be around her family. she just wanted one good fucking day in her hometown.

but of course, she never got anything she wanted. 

her dad made her tell her mom that she wasn’t going to the barbecue. he said he didn’t want to be the one to deal with her mouth, even though amy had never so much as given bob a dirty look. but paige called anyway, deciding that if worst came to worst, she could always hang up the phone and go about her night

her mother was pissed, but not like she was at dinner. her mom was angry in that i know you’re not coming, so i’m gonna make you hurt kind of way. 

paige didn’t hang up, she sat there curled in a ball with the phone to her ear and listened to her mother berate her. her fingers popped around her duvet, her eyes salted her pillows with tears as she listened. 

paige felt that small crack in her chest expand just a little bit more. she felt so… wide. so open and empty. 

she went to that party wanting to be full. so she drank more than she’d planned to. she danced until she couldn’t breathe. she flirted with the same girl all night.

the girl was pretty. paige never got her name, but she was short and her smile was bright. she left without telling paige bye, though. not that paige minded, she was too busy knocking back bombpop flavored jungle juice and chasing it with  red, white & blue jello shots.

by the time her uber came, paige had given herself a field sobriety test and failed miserably. she couldn’t walk in a straight line, she couldn’t even say the alphabet in the original order, much less backwards, and she poked herself in the eye while trying to touch her finger to her nose. 

she was drunk. beautifully, undeniably wasted. 

she asked the uber driver if she could roll her window down, and the man said sure and asked her not to throw up in his back seat. 

the car ride made her sick. the fresh-air did nothing to calm the nausea swirling in her belly or the burning in her chest. she felt her head get light and then heavy and then light again. her eyelids felt too heavy to keep them open for the entire ride.

she didn’t realize she’d gotten home until the driver banged on the seat in front of her. her eyes popped open and she flew forward, causing her head to feel like it was going to fall off her shoulders. it took her a second and more than three deep breaths to be ready to get out of the car, and when she did, she nearly fell.

paige wasn’t a sloppy drunk. she’d never been one to black-out, or make mistakes she could blame on alcohol. but tonight, she felt like she wasn't gonna make it into the house.

she wasn't even enjoying her drunk anymore. she was so hot, so heavy and so fucking tired.

the front door was unlocked, which she was grateful for because she couldn't remember which pocket her keys were in. she tried to be quiet, but her foot dragged over the doorstep, which made her begin to fall.

she didn't fall, thankfully. azzi caught her. tall, beautiful, Different azzi with her strong hands caught paige and pulled her back on solid ground. she moved paige’s body with ease, grabbing her just below the shoulders and guiding her back up right.

for a moment, paige could do nothing but stand there with azzi’s hands on her arms gripping them like she was scared to let go. her eyes were wide. her usually styled curls were piled on top of her head in a frizzy bun.

paige was too drunk for azzi to be wearing the pajamas that she was wearing. it was a pink— soft pink that almost looked white— camisole dress. it was so short, stopping way before azzi’s knees with a shallow v neck.

paige felt her mouth begin to water, and she didn’t know if it was because of azzi, or because she was about to projectile vomit. she couldn’t act on either one. she couldn’t drool over azzi and she couldn’t ruin this fucking dress.

she was already hot and azzi’s hands on her weren't helping but she wanted azzi to keep touching her. to always feel the heat of her palms.

“you’re up.” it was supposed to come out like a question, but paige was more focused on trying to actually say the words than her tone of voice.

azzi nodded, flexing her fingers around the meat of paige’s arms. “i was waiting for you.”

paige nodded, meaning to say something about what azzi said, but the movement made her dizzy and the reason her mouth started water became clear.

“i’m gonna be sick.” she jumped backwards for the sake of azzi’s dress.

azzi took a step forward, placing her hand on paige’s back. “let’s go to the bathroom.” she stepped to  the side of her.  “c’mon, p let’s go to the bathroom.”

paige didn’t nod again, but she took a slow step forward. she’d have gone wherever azzi took her because she didn’t have it in her to think about whether things were ideas or bad.

Sober Paige would have avoided close proximity to azzi, but Drunk Paige told herself she could handle it— that she’d much rather be guided off a cliff by azzi, than stumble to the bathroom alone. so, she just walked and turned three corners, not remembering if that was really the path to her bathroom.

azzi guided her the whole way with the softest press between the shoulder blades. she kept a hand on paige’s hip, steering her for every turn and keeping her up right. her grip wasn’t hard and she didn’t seem annoyed but there was firmness in her thumbs that made paige try a little harder to not knock into the walls.

azzi didn’t let paige go until they made it to the bathroom, and even then, she helped her sit on the toilet lid before closing the door and turning the light on. 

it seemed like azzi knew what it was like to be drunk and blinded by bright lights, because she didn't tirn the big light on. she opted for the lights on paige’s mirror, which filled bathroom with a warm orange glow. 

paige leaned against the tank of the toilet, trying her absolute hardest to keep her head from falling back. “i think i have alcohol poisoning.”

azzi was at the counter, pulling something out from under the sink. “do you feel hot or cold?”

paige watched from the toilet as azzi rummaged through the bathroom. she didn’t know what she was doing, she just looked so sure. like everything she was doing had a purpose. 

“hot.” paige blinked. “really fucking hot.”

azzi turned the sink on with a deep sigh, “you don’t have alcohol poisoning. people who have alcohol poisoning feel hypothermic.” 

she was relieved, paige noticed. her shoulders relaxed when she said it. 

paige followed her every movement, catching the way her nightdress clung to her body. paige was a fan, so she said so. 

“i like your dress.” inside thoughts were no longer inside thoughts, apparently.

azzi turned and smiled, still messing with things on the counter.

“pink is like,” paige paused to swallow the sour taste in her mouth. “your color.”

azzi smiled again and moved so she was standing in front of paige. “it’s my favorite.” then, she pressed something cold and wet against paige’s chest.

any other person would have jumped back at the unexpected contact, but paige leaned in. it was a nearly painful contrast— the heat of her body versus the coolness of the rag. she felt her face get even hotter and she knew that whatever was spreading in her chest wasn’t because of the rag— it was because of the woman holding it.

paige craned her neck so she could look at azzi’s face instead of her chest. she was too close— closer than she’d ever been before. she was dizzy and nauseous but she’d pretend she wasn’t if it meant she could keep looking.

azzi had waited up for her. it was the middle of the night, and azzi had waited up for paige. she didn’t think twice about helping her and she didn’t seem annoyed, she wasn’t rushing the process. she was just standing there, giving paige whatever she needed.

“you’re so soft.” the beauty of being drunk was that you didn’t care about the repercussions of your words. paige couldn’t even remember why being around azzi was a bad idea anymore. 

there was no facade or distancing. there was just nearness and cold water trickling down her shirt. 

“everything is soft like,” paige reached up and touched her own head. “like your hair is so fucking soft and your hands— i love your hands. i saw them when you were trying to make the duck.”

azzi let out a laugh and paige beamed. she really liked when azzi smiled and she loved even more when azzi smiled at her.

“and your smile is soft. when you smile your teeth go into your lip and it looks like someone’s laying on a pillow.”

paige wanted to lay on that pillow. she’d give anything to lay on that fucking pillow.

paige blinked and swallowed that taste again before speaking. “you have soft eyes and your voice is so— yeugh.”

paige interrupted herself with a gag. the taste she’d been trying to swallow had crept it’s way back up her throat. she slapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her watery eyes shut. it took a minute for her to to shove it back down, but when she opened her eyes again, she was face-to-face with a kneeling azzi.

she put her hand on paige’s shoulder and pulled. “let’s get on the floor.”

paige’s body stiffened at the idea of vomiting in front of azzi. she shook her head and tried to pull it together “no, i’m—” she gagged again, and she decided there was no escaping it. “okay.”

she let azzi nudge her to her knees. the tile was cold and it bit into her knees and paige was becoming more and more overwhelmed by the second.

she slid her hair over her shoulder and leaned over the toilet and forced herself to gag. she just wanted to get over with. she wanted to be done.

but she couldn't throw up. no matter how much she retched, nothing happened. it was humiliating and paige was so dizzy and her stomach was still bubbling.

she didn’t mean to start crying, but the tears began to fall and all she could do was rest her head on her arm, which was laying on the toilet seat.

she felt a hand— azzi’s hand— on her back. she didn't move it, but she didn't have to. it was doing it’s job.

she leaned in so her mouth was beside paige’s war. “what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

paige wanted to cry even harder. azzi had never called her anything but her name, and sudden switch up was an even harder shock to her system.

“i can’t.” she whined. “it won’t come up. i almost yacked all over you and now i can’t.”

none of this was supposed to happen. she was supposed to get tipsy, come home, sleep, and leave the next morning. but things never happened the way paige wanted them to.

“that’s okay.” azzi cooed. “do you need help?”

paige didn't know how azzi was supposed to help in this situation, but she’d have done anything for this to be over, so she nodded and groaned into her elbow.

“okay,” azzi patted paige’s back twice and pulled her so that she was sitting up. “i need you to lean over the toilet an— no not right now. in just a second, i need you to wait just a second, okay?”

paige pushed her hair out of her face and nodded. she was still wet with tears and she felt her bottom lip shaking from trying to keep it together.

“good.” azzi held onto paige’s shoulders and rubbed her thumbs along the sides of her neck. “i need you to lean over the toilet and i’m gonna put my fingers down your throat so you can throw up. is that okay?” paige nodded again. “alright, now lean over.”

she did as she was told, of course. turning to face the toilet again, paige braced her hands on the seat. azzi scooped all of her hair up into her fist and held it at the base of her neck.

“good. now open up for me, sweetheart.”

paige’s whole body locked up. she was too drunk for shit like that, too intoxicated to stop her mind from wandering. but then, azzi tapped two fingers on her chin and her mouth popped open.

she didn't do it hard— she was never rough with the way she moved. azzi slid her fingers into paige’s mouth quickly but gently.  she went all the way back, her knuckles brushing against the roof of paige’s mouth. she reached all the way down paige’s throat, waiting for her gag before ripping them out. 

paige burned as she emptied herself into the toilet. her eyes burned, her throat burned, her cheeks burned. everything was hot and violent. it burned until she was done, and even then, her body sat at a simmer. 

she gasped over the toilet bowl, huffing and puffing and wiping at her face like it would clean her up. she felt awful and gross to the point that a shower might not have helped. 

azzi pushed her through it all. she rubbed at her back, patted it at times. she’d said little shit like there you go and you’re doing so good, as if she were cheering her on at a game, and not making sure she didn't pass out in the toilet. 

when paige could breath again, all she wanted to lay down and forget any of this ever happened. she moved to get to her feet, stumbling on the way. she got there eventually, and that was the point. 

azzi guided paige to her bedroom the same way she did before— one hand on her hip, one on her back. again, she wasn’t rough, she didn’t speak. she just got paige where she needed to go, and helped her sit at the side of her bed. 

“do you want pajama’s, p?”

she had her hands on paige’s shoulders, and her head dipped low so that they were eye-to-eye. she looked tired, her usually big eyes a little smaller. paige felt horrible. this was all her fault— azzi would never be up well after midnight, but here she was. exhausted for the sake of paige. 

the tears came again, this time paige didn’t have it in her to fight them off.

azzi caught it immediately, of course. she stood up to her full height, sliding between paige’s knees. she brought her hands to the back of paige’s neck, pulling her in so that she was resting just below azzi’s breasts. 

it was comfortable there, warm but not hot. paige let go of herself in those arms. she cried softly, shaking her head for every tear that fell. 

azzi ran her hands up the nape of paige’s neck and held her. she asked no questions, but paige couldn't shut herself up if she tried.

“i’m so sorry.” she whined. she was so fucking whiny tonight. “i didn’t mean for this to happen. i swear. it’s just all got fucked up and i’m just sorry. it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

azzi kept rubbing at the back of paige’s neck. “i know, sweetheart.” she let out a breath, and paige felt the exhale against her cheek. “i know.”

she pulled away, looking up at azzi with wet cheeks. azzi looked down at her, still holding her. she still looked tired, but there was something in her eyes— something that made paige nervous.

“are you mad at me?”

god, she needed to go the fuck to sleep. she was drunk and crying and fucking pathetic.

azzi shook her head, her eyes bugged out. “no, paige.” she used her thumb to wipe at paige’s face. “i’m not mad.”

paige kept her eyes on azzi, still. she felt too good to pull away, and she still was worried that azzi was mad. she ran her eyes over every one of azzi’s features, and by the time she’d gotten to her mouth, azzi was smiling.

paige felt a little lighter (which could have just been her drunk taking over her again). she didn’t want azzi to be mad. she was literally crying because azzi looked sleepy. she’d have done whatever in that moment if it meant azzi wasn’t mad.

“i just need you to lay down for me.” she pushed at paige’s shoulders and helped get her feet in the bed. “need you to sleep it off.”

like before, paige did what she was told. she shimmied until her head was on her pillow (an uncomfortable contrast to azzi’s ribcage) and her feet were rubbing together. she was still in her jorts and t-shirt, but she’d worry about that the next day. 

“okay.” azzi pushed the cover over paige’s shoulders. “thank you, mommy.”

nobody moved. nobody said a word.

paige nearly started crying again as azzi still held the duvet over her shoulders. she closed her eyes and tried to control herself enough that azzi would think she’d fallen asleep. she was drunk enough for this to be ignored— she prayed that this would be ignored.

maybe paige had fooled her, or maybe azzi was showing grace, but she patted paige’s shoulder twice and squeezed at her bicep with a “goodnight, p.”

and paige waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she turned on her belly and screamed.

──

when paige woke up, she thought the sun was a lazer trying to slice her skull in half. she was beyond hungover— she was hungunder. she shoved her head into her pillows in an attempt to ease the ache behind her eyes. of course, she was unsuccessful. 

everything hurt. her mouth tasted like vomit and tequila. it hurt to use her eyes. and worst of all— she’d over-fucking-slept.  she didn’t know where the hell her phone was, but she knew it was too bright outside for early morning. 

her flight wasn’t until two, but she’d planned to leave the house way earlier than necessary and sleep at the airport. she needed to know how late she was, because if God loved her, her father and azzi would be at lunch already.

she sat up in her bed and patted around her mattress. she was still in her clothes from the night before, but they felt stiffer. her hair was knotted at the scalp, her head was about to explode. 

she found her phone charging on her nightstand next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of white gatorade. paige didn’t have to think about who’d done it. 

it was ten thirty-seven in the morning, and her dad wouldn’t be leaving for lunch until twelve. 

she wished she forgot what happened last night. she wished she actually did get alcohol poisoning so that she’d have died in her sleep. maybe she could have choked on her vomit if she’d have laid on her back. anything so that she didn’t have to walk out of her bedroom with the knowledge that she’d called her father’s girlfriend mommy the night before in a drunken, tear-induced stupor. 

paige would have to leave eventually. she had a boat trip with kk in two days, and she’d be damned if she missed that flight.

technically speaking, azzi was supposed to have been gone. none of her dad’s conquests lasted more than three months, and he’d been seeing azzi since february. 

why the fuck was she still with him?

there was no way azzi— who seemed like the most interesting person on the planet— was in love with bob bueckers.

maybe she was like an escort or something. maybe she was gold digging. maybe paige’s dad was sick and dying and azzi had met him at the hospital and swooped in to anna nicole smith him. that made more sense— anything made more sense— than her staying with him because he made her happy. 

bob didn’t make anyone happy. he didn’t make anyone feel anything. he was like wonderbread from subway. bland and boring and way too fucking old for someone like azzi. there was no way she was getting what she needed from him.

paige got out of bed and went to the bathroom. she pee’d, she brushed out her hair, she brushed her teeth, she wiped the crust from her eyes. she stared at herself in the mirror and prepared herself for what she was about to walk into.

when she walked into the living room, her father was watching blue bloods. azzi wasn’t sitting with him, and paige couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere.

bob nodded in paige’s direction. “morning.” 

she didn’t stop on her way to the kitchen. “hey, dad.”

as she made her coffee, she looked around the kitchen for azzi but there were no dirty dishes, no lipgloss tubes, no hair-ties. 

her father shouted from the couch. “‘m surprised you’re still here. you’re usually gone before anyone else wake up on your flight days.”

“yeah i uh—” how did you say i got shitfaced to your father even though you’re over the legal drinking age? “i went a little hard last night. had to sleep it off.”

that worked… right?

she popped her head around the corner and took a sip of her coffee. “where’s azzi?”

still watching tv, her dad shrugged. “oh,  she went back to her place this morning.”

“her place?”

“she doesn’t live with me, p.” he laughed. “she’s thirty-one. she has her own house.”

azzi had her own house. of course she did because she was an Adult who worked in an emergency room. she was thirty-one of course she had a house. she was thirty-one.

had bob been to azzi’s house? if she had her own house, why was she always at bob’s? if was an ER nurse and had her own house, why the fuck was she with bob bueckers?

it wasn’t paige’s business— azzi wasn’t paige’s business.

but azzi had made paige her business. with the clothes and the tucking her in. she cared about paige. she asked bob questions about her, so what was the harm in reciprocating energy?

“right.” she nodded. “is it serious? with you and azzi?”

“i dunno,” he shrugged. “she’s nice. can’t cook, but she’s nice.” her dad never looked away from the tv, and that told paige all she needed to know. 

azzi wasn’t going to be with him much longer. there was no way someone like her could stand to be around someone like paige’s dad long term. 

she leaned back on the couch and thought for a second. 

whenever bob’s girlfriends broke up with him, paige usually never saw them again. she’d never wanted to see them again, but azzi was different. paige was older now. she could get azzi’s number. they could talk even when she and bob broke up. that could be normal.

“yeah.” she stood up, coffee in hand. “okay, i’m gonna go pack my bag.”

her dad called down the hallway. “love you!”

“me too, dad.”

FALL BREAK

every time paige came home for thanksgiving, she spent the whole flight thinking about one thing: mac and cheese. 

they always ate at the same soul food spot for thanksgiving because it was one of the only places that served actual thanksgiving food on thanksgiving. they had the best mac and cheese, and paige waited all year for it. 

this year on her flight home, all she could think about was azzi fudd. 

paige spent the last five months learning all google could offer on azzi. she was an ER nurse, which paige already knew, but azzi was also an NP, which meant she made the big bucks. hence the house. she’d never been in a public relationship, but she was a bridesmaid in her best friends wedding, and her date was a brunette masc in a suit that didn’t match the theme. her favorite color was pink. she had a dark pink accent wall in her bedroom and her bedspread was always some shade of pink.

pink is like… your color. 

paige had gone through her instagram highlights countless times. she’d memorized azzi’s linkedin. she’d turned her profile views off on tiktok so she could check azzi’s reposts, but she’d never reposted anything. 

paige was aware that this was teetering the line of stalking. she knew that Normal people were not this invested in their dad’s girlfriend. but paige was almost positive that azzi would have broken up with bob by now. it was november. no one lasted more than a year with bob, not even paige’s mom.

amy had called paige before her flight to say she was excited to see her. paige never wanted her mother to be excited to see her. shit like that never ended well for her. 

she called kk immediately after that to ask if she could spend the holiday in wisconsin. she got cussed out, of course. kk told her that her mom had already started cooking, and that paige had to woman up and just tell her mother to shut the fuck up. 

paige would never. 

paige never had an issue being confrontational unless it was her mother. she was a one hundred and twenty pound masculine lesbian basketball player. the slick mouth came naturally. but being around family— her biological family, not her chosen one— made paige something she learned she wasn’t. 

she became quiet in minnesota. she became softer, more susceptible to bruising. she’d always been the one that someone always had an issue with. 

her mom hated when paige started playing basketball. she hated when paige didn’t got to any school dances. she hated when paige refused to wear a dress for her senior pictures. she hated that paige moved twenty hours away for school.

she gotten used to their dance. she didn’t talk, her mother said things, everyone agreed with amy. a few days later, amy would call paige (who had most likely already went back to school) and apologize, while also making it seem like paige was the one in the wrong. she’d ignore everyone’s calls and texts until it was time to come home again, and the cycle would repeat itself.

toxic? yes. routine? also yes.

she mastered avoiding  it. she was never home for more than a week at a time, she never called her mother first and she kept an excuse to leave early on lock. 

but then azzi came, and paige had someone in her corner. you’d think that having azzi would have made paige feel better—and it did. paige wasn’t so much worried about being dogpiled on as she was about azzi seeing it… again. 

paige worked hard so that no one knew how much her mother hurt her. it was why none of her dad’s girlfriends ever spoke up for her, no teachers, no hometown friends. she seemed like she had it— she didn’t even really care. azzi saw that, and still said something. still did something. 

it was all paige could think about. 

then there was the fourth of july.

you deserve it and open up for me, sweetheart.

what the hell any of that weekend was about was anyone’s guess. but it stuck with paige. she didn’t know how she was supposed to act like it didn’t, but she’d figure it out. she had no choice. 

on the uber ride from the airport, paige felt her heart pound. she was nervous. she was excited. she was anticipating. she wanted to see— she wanted azzi. 

of course, azzi wasn’t there when paige got home. small conveniences didn’t happen for paige.

she wanted to ask her dad where azzi was and when she’d be coming over but again— that would throw her father off. so she went to her room and thrust her duffel onto her ottoman and unpacked her suitcase. she tried to do it slowly, to convince herself that she didn’t care. except when she finished settling in, and azzi wasn’t there, paige felt like she was going to go insane. 

her father, the poor, useless man, was sitting at the kitchen table—like he didn’t have an office— shuffling through papers. 

bob was one of those men who you never really know what her does for work, but he always seems to be working. paige was twenty-two and she still had no idea how her father had so much money. she just knew that she’d gotten a brand new car for her sixteenth birthday, and that her let amy keep the house in the divorce because he could buy another one. she’d never been told no because they couldn’t afford something, and her father told her she didn’t need to get a full scholarship if she didn’t want to play basketball in college.

she didn’t care to know about his job, she didn’t know anyone who ever did. he just worked. 

but his working was annoying her because he was so calm and she was nearly manic. he knew where azzi was, and he knew when she’d be coming over and he wouldn’t say a damn word about it unless he was asked. he probably didn’t even recognize azzi’s absence— it didn’t effect him the way it affected paige. 

he was pissing her off, and she needed to be gone. so she did what any girl in her early twenties did in crisis; she took her dad’s car and went to the mall. 

she didn’t really shop, she just walked around and went into the stores she always went into and rummaged through the racks without trying things on.

every time she saw something she liked, she’d pick it up and hold it to her body. she’d imagine it on herself, the way it would fit, the way it would feel on her skin. then she’d picture the face her mother would make if she saw paige in it, and she’d get sick to her stomach and she’d put the clothes back. 

the thought of purposely irritating amy made paige sick. but then she thought about azzi’s gift and the plan to rebel for the christmas photo. she smiled at the memory of azzi’s face while she asked paige about the clothes. she wanted her to like them. she wanted her to be comfortable.

“your clothes don’t make me uncomfortable— they shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”

paige could have fallen to her knees that day and promised azzi everything she’d ever wanted in life. she’d never experienced anything like what she felt when azzi was around, and her want for that feeling was almost unmanageable. 

when paige walked into the jewelry store, she planned on getting her earrings cleaned. they were her first Big Girl purchase, and she’d been walking around aimlessly for about an hour. she needed productivity. she planned to hand the man with the strange mustache the earring and go eat. 

she didn’t plan on talking to the man with the mustache and learning his name, nor did she plan on letting him show her jewelry she wasn’t going to buy— she wasn’t going to buy any.

but, he picked up a necklace. silver chain, pink square cut diamond held in place by four prongs. it glittered as john— the salesman's name was john— explained that it was lab grown and he’d give it to her for the bargain price of three hundred and sixty dollars due to the holidays. 

paige stared at the necklace with hard, furrowed brows. 

“pink is like… your color.”

“it’s my favorite.” 

her accountant would have encourage paige to get the price down to an even three hundred, and she probably could have. but she didn’t. she looked john straight in his beady eyes, and asked if they took apple pay.

──

paige woke up on thanksgiving with the feeling that she was going to die that day. she had the worst anxiety she’d had since she was a junior in highschool, and it took her twenty minutes to get out of bed.

she hadn’t seen azzi the entire time she’d been home. it had only been two days, but still. she’d spent the last five month thinking about this woman. she’d spent two days with a necklace she’d bought for her tucked in her top drawer. she’d waited to hear azzi’s voice or smell or hair or see her coat on the rack.

she knew azzi would be at thanksgiving though. she heard her father talking yesterday, telling amy that the reservation was for six, which meant azzi had to be coming.

she got ready for dinner with that in mind. fresh out the shower, she put on deodorant and spritzed her valentino cologne. she looked at herself in mirror, in her calvin briefs and binder, and admired herself. 

she’d bulked up like she planned. she’d never get called olive oil, or string bean again. no more sleeper build, no more low stamina. she worked for this body. carved it herself and she was proud of it. she tried to drill that in her brain before it was scrutinized by her entire family. 

she wore black denim jeans and a cream button down that was a size too big. paired it with sambas and a silver chain. she slicked her hair into a bun and shoved her glasses on her face with no makeup she’d tried to give calm, when she felt anything but. 

she was nervous about her mother, but she was always nervous about her mother. the nausea came with azzi. not knowing why she’d been away. wondering if she’d still be on paige’s side. figuring out how she was going to act like she didn’t want her dad’s girlfriend. 

her dad drove them to the restaurant and paige could smell the food before the door was even open. at least she’d have this. food— real comfort food that she’d gorge on while holding back tears.

the table was set the way it always was. amy, dan and taylor on one side. paige and her dad on the other. everyone said their hello’s and pretended like they didn’t hate paige. azzi wasn’t there.

for a while, paige thought she wouldn’t come and that comforted her. she could do this by herself. she always had. she ordered plain water the same way everyone else did, and sat with her back straight and elbows off the table.

she was going to be good tonight.

dan was the first person to address her individually. 

“paige, how’s the season going.”

he always asked her about basketball. he played when he was in highschool, and he tried to give her advice, as if she wasn’t playing at higher level than he ever got to. but he was trying, so paige always let it slide. 

“uh, we’re good.” she nodded. “we got this freshman— her name’s sarah. she’s already a dog.”

she watched dan nod and pretend to know who she was talking about. her team was five games into their season, and she knew her family knew nothing about it. 

she liked it that way. basketball was hers.

taylor perked up, wide eyed and antsy. “what about kk?”

paige watched the way taylor twinkled when she said kk’s name, the way her hand gripped the edge of the table, and she made a mental note to tell kk that her step-sister may or may not have a thing for her. 

paige smiled and took a sip of her water. “kk’s good. she’s been in the gym, i think she’d gonna be a problem this season.”

taylor beamed, and amy spoke.

“kk…” paige braced herself, the way she always did before he mother spoke. “i remember her. she’s a good girl. i’m glad she’s progressing.”

paige cracked a little. her mother had never been glad paige was progressing, she’d never thought of paige and said she was a good girl.

kk was a good girl, and she was progressing, but paige was paige bueckers. she was already legendary.

she dug at a scratch in the wooden table and tried not to be jealous of her best friend. “yeah.” 

“and you?” amy looked directly at paige and folded her hands. “we saw your GQ magazine thing.”

“did you like it?”

paige knew the answer to that question. she was manspread in a suit on the cover, and dressed like a skater boy by page three. her mom hated it, and paige knew that during the shoot. she liked the way she looked in the mag. she disliked the way they over-lined her lips, but she loved the way the photos turned out.

she knew she’d leave this table hating the entire thing.

her mom closed her eyes and pressed her palms into the table. “i just don’t know why you have to broadcast it, paige.”

she always said that. 

broadcast. advertise. 

like paige was supposed to hide the fact that she was gay. she’d spent fourteen years in the closet and another six pretending to be bisexual. that wasn’t enough for amy. 

“i’m just being me, mom.”

amy shook her head, her bob swaying with every twist. “no, that’s not you.” 

she pointed at paige, “you—” then she clutched her chest. “my paige doesn’t dress like a boy on magazine cover while talking about how much she loves God.”

paige could have flown across the table then. she’d only had a few things that were hers. her faith was one of those things, and her mother knew that.

her faith was one of the few things that she kept from her mother. when she was in highschool, she’d go to church and bible study and youth group because it made her feel close to her mom. it was the one thing they could talk about without causing WWIII. her senior year, paige got deeper into hit. she was going to be leaving home, and she needed something to bring her back when she needed it. 

now, she was junior in college, and her faith had nothing to do with her mother, or her father or anyone besides her and the God she served. it honestly made sense for amy to try and take that from her. 

she watched her mom’s lip shake. she watched dan hide in his cup of water. she watched taylor bury her face in her arms on the table. 

she planned on being good. she planned for smooth sailing and calmness. 

 “me being loving a woman doesn’t have anything to do with—” she couldn’t even get into her speech before being interrupted by her father. 

bob put his hand up, pointing in the air. “don’t yell at your mother.”

she screwed her face up and whipped to look at him. she was used to him taking her side, she’d gotten used to their double teams. but being used to something doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

no matter how much of a tolerance you build to to something, it’ll find a way to hurt you eventually. 

her father shrugged like everything was that simple. “she wants the best for you.”

paige scoffed—or maybe it was a laugh. she couldn’t believe this was still her life. that she signed herself up for this bullshit five time a year. 

amy kept going, wagging that fucking finger over paige’s frame. “you just look ridiculous is all—”

the door to the restaurant chimed, and paige became painfully aware of the fact that they hadn’t even ordered yet. she had no food, and she wouldn’t for at least another twenty minutes. 

she heard azzi before she saw her. she’d been telling hostess that her party was already there, and thanking her for taking her drink. 

when she got to the table, paige could smell her. she smelled like white diamond and powder fresh deodorant.

“i’m so sorry i’m late,” she slid into her seat and shuffled so she was leaning over the table. “my shift ran late and i smelled like hospital.”

paige watched as she spoke. she sucked in every word like it was oxygen. azzi was smiling but not really. she’d grown her hair out and the curls were being held back by a braid secured with a white ribbon. she looked tired, which was probably why she was talking so fast, but despite azzi’s tardiness and chaotic entrance, paige felt herself breathe again. 

she nearly cried at the side of the woman. she’d waited days months to see her, and there she was.

she almost pissed herself when azzi looked back at her. it was a small glance, but paige would hold onto it until her dying breath. she didn’t stop looking. not when azzi started asking taylor about nursing school, or when bob said he liked azzi’s jeans, or when dan agreed that azzi looked really nice. 

everyone’s attention was on azzi for those moments, but paige… she was learning azzi always had her attention, whether she was in the room or not. 

when azzi looked at her, it felt like a glow had been cast over her head and angels from heaven were singing songs in too high of a pitch to be understood. 

she looked paige up, down, and up again, and then she smiled.

“i like your shirt, p.” she reached out and ran a hand from paige’s shoulder down to her elbow. “i think it looks good with your skin tone.”

paige almost laughed. she wanted to. she didn’t take her eyes off of azzi, but she knew her mom was about to blow her gasket. azzi hadn’t spoken quietly. she wasn’t subtle in the way she touched paige’s arm. 

they just looked at each other and for some odd reason, paige no longer cared about why azzi hadn’t come to see her, nor did she care about how she was going to hide the fact that she wanted this woman more than she wanted to wake up the next morning. 

but then azzi blinked and turned away, forcing paige to do the same. she looked at bob, who had his head in his hand, and then at taylor who was smiling behind her glass. 

azzi nudged bob, “bob, what’s the matter?”

paige felt her chest puff out just little, because finally the joke wasn’t on her. she leaned back in her chair and manspread like it was dare.

“my mom was just telling me how ridiculous i look in my boy clothes.”

azzi turned the corners of her lips down and raised her brows in a way that said interesting but in a condescending way and paige felt herself get tight between the legs. 

“oh, well.” azzi clasped her hands together and sat back in her seat “it’s a good thing it’s not for her, isn’t it?”

there were only a few points in paige’s life where she’d been sure of things.

she knew when she picked up a basketball that she’d never put it down. 

after her first salon trip, she knew that she was meant to be a blonde, and she’d spend one day every month making sure she lived in her truth. 

when she was sixteen, she made out with a cheerleader in the hotel pool at an away game, and paige knew that she had to break up with her boyfriend, because nothing had ever felt like that before. 

that night, paige became undeniably sure of that fact she was going to get azzi. she’d make her feel as good. she was going to make her smile so hard she busted her lip. she was going to fill her with warmth and light and joy.

“yes,” she said. “it’s a great thing it’s not."

──

paige knew azzi was coming home— to bob’s home.

azzi drove a suburu. paige pictured her driving her dogs to the dog park while they messed around in the back of the car. she wondered if azzi kept the AC booming, or if she was a windows down kind of woman.

she wanted to know every minute detail about her. how she drove, how she slept, how she tasted. she suddenly had no interest in pretending she wanted nothing to do with azzi, and she’d realized how dangerous this feeling truly was.

she watched azzi get out of her car. watched her forearms flex as she pulled herself up on the door. watched her shoulders square while she closed the door. watched her jaw move as she made fun of bob’s slow driving.

she made it a point to not say anything on the way inside the house. she made it a point to not say goodnight before speedwalking to her bedroom. she knew azzi would follow her— she needed azzi to follow her.

she was pacing her room when she heard the knock on her baseboard. it was azzi, still in her cardigan, smiling the way paige had been hoping.

she took a singular step into the room, and folded her hands in front of her. “i like the bun.”

paige froze and tried not to say thank you. she could see the lace of azzi’s bra under her mustard yellow tanktop. she didn’t seem like the type for frilly lingerie but paige felt tight all the same.

it dawned on her that the lace wasn’t for her. that it was for a man that didn’t deserve it— a man who wouldn’t appreciate it the way paige would.

she felt her body be flooded with an anger she’d never felt before. something strong and envious that sang i can do anything better than you.

for safety reasons, she didn’t move. she dug her toes into her rug and put her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

“where you been?” she didn’t know if she sounded as desperate as she felt, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

azzi furrowed her brows. her head tilted to the side like she was trying to figure something out, and it made paige uneasy.

“working.” she said. she stepped forward again. “i wanted a little nest egg for the holidays.”

“so it wasn’t because of….” paige didn’t want to say it. saying it would force them to talk about it. if she trailed off, the answer would be yes or no and there’s be no need for expanding.

azzi chewed at her bottom lip, but paige could see her grin. the tips of her ears grew hot with embarrassment, but she didn’t feel ashamed. not anymore.

azzi shook her head. “of course not.” she sounded like she was telling the truth, but she looked like there was something she wasn’t saying. “i wanted to see you.”

paige almost came. she scratched at her thigh through her pockets and looked at the ground.

“thought you were avoiding me.” she regretted the words as soon as she said them. she wasn’t used to wanting to be this vulnerable. she wasn’t used to wanting to see someone. she wasn’t used to wanting to be seen by someone.

she felt azzi’s hand on her shoulder and lifted her head. she didn’t know when she’d gotten so close, but that seemed to be the running theme.

“i promise you i wasn’t.” she leaned up close so paige could see the black speckled in her eyes. “i was working graveyards and sleeping.”

they were inches apart. paige couldn’t breath from holding in everything she wasn’t supposed to want out loud. it was like a single inhale would cross a boundary. they hadn’t done that. yet.

azzi was looking at her like it was the most important thing in the world for paige to know that she wasn’t avoiding. it was the most important thing, at least to paige.

again, for safety reasons, she took a step back. “i got you something.”

the necklace. it was in her underwear drawer, in a long back velvet box that cost paige another twenty six dollars.

the space between them felt like a life raft. she could breathe again. she felt azzi’s eyes on her as she made her way to her dresser, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. she moved slower just to feel those eyes burning into the back of her head.

she pulled the box out and looked at it. she looked at the way her hands held the box, the way the velvet felt on her fingertips. it was soft but if she pushed even a little, she’d be met with a hardness. she wondered if she pushed into azzi, would she be met with the same hardness.

she showed azzi the necklace like a presentation. she shoved at her the way a child would while displaying their macaroni art. azzi didn’t take the box out of her hand, she just flipped the top open and pushed out a breath.

“paige,” she touched the diamond at the center and ran her finger around it slowly. paige watched the way her finger trembled, the gentleness she used.

she brought her eyes to azzi’s face and studied the vein in her forehead. she looked perplexed. not upset, not happy, but confused. “d’you like it?”

azzi looked up at her and balled her hand into a fist. she smiled her real smile and nodded, and paige nearly jumped for joy.

she needed that. the validation and the acceptance. she feared she would always need that and she feared she would only need it from azzi.

“i do.” azzi grabbed paige’s wrist. she didn’t squeeze, but her touch was enough for the hairs there to stand up. “put it on me.”

she turned and held her braid over her shoulder. paige’s first instinct was to step into her. to press her front to azzi’s back and pop every personal bubble. she didn’t do that, obviously. she was a gentlewoman.

kinda.

azzi’s hair smelled like hibiscus and honey. she had a tattoo on the back of her neck. paige traced the infinity symbol without touching it. what was infinite for azzi fudd?

she watched azzi’s shoulders rise and fall from behind her. watched her take the smallest step back. felt her ass press into paige’s thighs.

she put the necklace on azzi, letting her hands rest on her shoulders after. she wanted to push the cardigan off and feel the heat of azzi’s skin. she wanted her hands on azzi’s hips instead of her shoulders. she wanted— she just wanted.

azzi turned around, and paige used the guise of adjusting the necklace as a reason to keep touching her. she started at the clasp and dragged her fingers all the way down past the dips of azzi’s collarbones to the center of her chest. she tapped the pendant, then rubbed circles on the skin around it, all while not allowing herself eye contact.

she was right though. pink was azzi's color.

she felt azzi breath under her finger. she felt her chest rise and fall and rise and stay.

paige brought her eyes up to meet azzi’s and she knew then that she felt it too. it was the kind of intensity that had to be reciprocated in order to be felt.

azzi was breathing through her mouth, paige could feel it on her neck. she felt everything and she planned on feeling so much more.

azzi spoke but not really. it was more of a rasp than anything, but she let out a low. “paige.”

“hm?”

she didn’t know that that was supposed to do. if it was a warning, it hadn’t been heeded. it only made paige close her eyes and picture her name tumbling from those pouty lips again and again and again.

“i don’t thi—”

paige swallowed the rest of that sentence. whatever azzi didn’t think wasn’t necessary. 

azzi’s lips were as soft as they looked. soft and smooth but firm in the way they wrapped around paige’s. she didn’t kiss back immediately, but when she did, paige all but fell to her knees at the feeling.

she wrapped her arms around azzi’s waist, tugging the woman into her. she groaned into the kiss, her whole body languid. she felt azzi’s hands at the back of her head, fingers sliding beneath her bun. 

without pulling away, paige guided azzi’s cardigan off of her shoulders. she pushed the bottom of her tanktop up just enough for her thumbs to be touching skin. azzi was hot and panting and paige wanted to keep her that way. 

azzi pulled away and said paige’s name. she didn’t say it with much merit. didn’t push her away. she just said paige and tugged the sides of her button down. paige looked her pretty face for half a second before dipping into the woman’s neck. 

azzi sucked in a breath and fisted paige’s shirt. “maybe we— hm,” 

paige worked at her neck; kissing and sucking and licking and biting at the skin until azzi’s whole body shook in her hands.

“maybe we what?”

azzi moaned again, pulling paige further into her. “i just think—”

paige kissed her lips because there was no way the sentence was going to be productive. 

“we can think later.” she kissed her again, longer this time. “we can think all day tomorrow.”

she didn’t plan on thinking the next day either, but that wasn’t the point. the point was that she could feel azzi and she felt too good for distractions. 

“lemme have you tonight.” she kissed her again, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans. “just wanna make you feel good.”

she didn’t touch azzi, at least not the way she do desperately wanted to. no, she was going to drag this out, make it last. 

she tugged at the trim of azzi’s panties and smiled when the woman curled over, resting her head on paige’s shoulder with the quietest moan. 

“wanna make you happy, az.” she tugged again, and this time, azzi’s hips bucked into paige. 

she edged her fingers into azzi’s pants, cupping her pussy over her underwear. “make you cum,”  

azzi shuddered and paige pulled her hand away. she stepped back entirely, looking azzi in the eyes, so she could see the severity of the situation. 

“lemme have you.” she pleaded, kissing the center of azzi’s chest, right under her necklace. “please.”

azzi nodded, stepping up at the same time paige did. the two crashed into each other holding one another as tightly as they could while simultaneously fucking each other’s mouths. 

paige felt azzi’s nails drag against her skin as she pulled her shirt off. she tugged back into place by the waist and kissed her again, leading them to the bed. 

azzi sat, fully clothed on the bed, looking up at paige with those big brown eyes. pupil blown out, lip combo smeared, braid halfway undone. she was so perfect, it was impossible to make a mess of her. paige was nearly foaming at the mouth. she stood over azzi trying to catch her breath, which was pointless because every time azzi blinked, paige choked again. 

azzi broke the silence. “p?”

still staring in her daze, paige raised a brow. “hm?”

azzi grabbed paige’s hips, splaying her hands over the skin. she was grinning like she hadn’t tried to shut this down two minutes ago. she pressed a kiss to one of paige’s hips, then to the other, sucking on the muscle there.

“i said yes, sweetheart.”

paige fell to her knees, tugging the neckline of azzi’s tanktop down and wrapping her lips around the swell of her breast. she placed her free hand on azzi’s back and pushed her further into her mouth. 

aazzi pushed her pussy into paige’s belly, though paige couldn’t imagine it was doing much for her. it was doing wonders for paige though. she was two seconds away from fucking the woman into the ground. she was so needy, panting and searching for something to get her off.

now she gets it. paige thought. she feels the desperation i’ve felt since we met, and she'll never get rid of it.

she put her fingers in azzi’s belt loop, tugging the denim down and off her legs, leaving her underwear soaked and clinging to her pussy. she ran a finger down and watched azzi arch. 

“i wanna taste.” she pushed the fabric to the side and pushed her palm to azzi’s clit and they moaned together. “eat you so good you can’t see straight.”

azzi, with her scrunched face and sopping pussy and skin, rolled her hips. she was chasing it— chasing paige. she was so fucked. 

“yes.” azzi moaned, still fucking into paige’s palm. “you can. you can taste p, you can— oh fuck.”

paige fell into it, digging her hands into the flesh of azzi’s thighs and taking everything she had into her mouth. paige moaned into azzi’s pussy because she had to. 

she was enveloped by it all. the taste of azzi. the smell of azzi. the feel of azzi’s thighs shaking in her hands. the sound of azzi falling apart above her. 

she could do this all day. she wasn’t thinking of anything besides the fact that she wanted to stay here. in this bed. feasting on azzi. 

she pulled away, smiling when azzi’s hips chased after her mouth. she snatched azzi’s panties off,  brought her hand down and slid in her middle finger. azzi keened, arching so that the only part of her body that touched the bed was her head. 

paige fucked into her slowly at first— again, trying to drag it out, to make it last. but then azzi started fucking her back, rolling her hips to meet paige.

all paige wanted was to give azzi what she wanted and it seemed like azzi wanted more. paige was just as greedy, so she added her index finger and rolled over azzi’s clit with her thumb.

it was like azzi’s whole body stuttered. her eyes fell closed at the same time that her mouth fell open with an oh my god.

paige watched azzi as her face scrambled into something that could only be described as wanton. she wanted azzi to scream.

she curled her fingers, “does it feel good?” 

she knew it felt good. she knew what she was doing to her but she wanted to hear it. she wanted to hear azzi tell her it was good— that she was good. 

azzi nodded from above, sliding a hand onto paige’s shoulder and squeezing. “yes— yes,” paige kissed under her belly button, sucking at the skin. “you’re making mommy feel so good, sweetheart.”

paige felt her ears physically perk up. they hadn’t talked about it— what she’d called azzi on the fourth of july. she’d been embarrassed but hearing azzi say it made her feel nothing but hungry. 

she stuck her tongue out and licked at azzi’s skin, trailing until she was at her clit again. she licked at her until she felt azzi dripping down her wrist and then she used her whole mouth to suck until azzi’s blunt nails dug into her shoulders. 

paige hoped she’d bruise, she wanted this engraved on her forever. her hips dug into the mattress without her permission. she just needed to feel something— anything to relieve the tension between her legs. 

she kept fucking and eating and grinding until she thought she wasn’t breathing, and even then, she kept going. 

azzi was writhing above her, one hand playing with her tits, the other clutching paige’s shoulder. she was spread so wide, taking it so good and paige was lost. she nodded into azzi’s pussy, breathing through her nose, eyes rolling back at the scent.

“so good,” azzi cried, tightening her legs around paige’s head and grinding. “you’re doing so good.”

paige wondered if the cumming untouched thing actually happened. she was sure she was almost there, still fucking into the mattress like it could fuck back. the humping wasn’t enough, but azzi telling her she was doing good was all she needed. 

“please az— i wanna make you cum.” she spat onto her pussy “i need you to cum.”

she dove back in, eating her pussy and fucking her all at once. she was so close to coming herself and the feel of azzi spazzing around her was only pushing her further. 

“paige,” azzi gasped, nearly sitting all the way up. “you’re so fucking—” 

“i want it,” paige begged. “want you to cum on my face. in my mouth— fuck please, mommy”

azzi sucked in a big breath before her whole body locked up and her leg started twitched around paige’s head. she came quietly, letting out harsh, quiet breaths as she gradually fell back on the bed. 

paige kept going because one wasn’t enough. she wanted the taste of azzi’s cum on her tongue forever. azzi was so sensitive, though. so she took her mouth off of her and instead blew lightly on her swollen clit. she added a third finger and watched as her pussy contracted. 

azzi locked up again, this time gripping at paige’s disheveled bun. “paigepaigepaigepaigepai—SHIT” she snatched at the girls hair and arched so that her entire neck was on display. “oh shiit, fuck yes, sweetheart, just like that.”

she came on paige’s fingers and paige couldn’t help but to lick at her hand as she was fucking azzi through her orgasm. 

she was on a high. the taste of azzi’s cum in her mouth and the sight of it on her fingers and the sound of her gasping for air and the feeling of her hands in paige’s hair— it was all so good. 

she came untouched with a shaky groan into azzi’s thigh. she literally came in her pants and she couldn’t care less. she climbed over the woman’s body kissing her lips until she noticed that azzi was still trying to catch her breath, so she kissed down her neck and stopped at the valley between  her breasts.

she laid there, breathing azzi in, resting her forehead on the woman’s solar plexus. she matched her breath to azzi’s. she felt that hand in her hair, letting her bun down and rubbing the base of her skull. 

paige could have fallen asleep there. but she has so much to say, and so little time to say it. azzi would have to leave her before the night was over. that realization curdled like milk in her chest.

face in azzi’s chest, paige whispered, “i’ve never wanted anyone like i want you.”

azzi’s hand froze in her head, but she corrected quickly stroking again while saying nothing.

“like,” paige laughed a little, “when we first met, all i wanted to do was talk to you. ask you a million questions.”

she felt azzi’s heart pound against her cheek, but she didn't show that she was effected by anything paige had said. 

in a raspy, tired voice all azzi said was, “i wanted you to.”

paige thought back to the day they met. when azzi was preparing to butcher the duck they never got to eat. she’d been enamored from the jump, but she’d been callous.

she brought her head up, looking at azzi, who’d already been looking at her. 

“i’m sorry i was a dick to you.” she mumbled. 

azzi smiled and shook her head like it was the ridiculous thing to say. she brushed a thumb across paige’s chin and pressed it into her bottom lip. “it’s okay, baby.”

paige slept alone that night, wrapped in azzi’s cardigan. she lied when she told azzi they’d think all day the next day. she had a plane to catch and a game to play. she’d be going back to storrs knowing nothing but azzi fudd. 

Fuck.

CHRISTMAS BREAK

paige wasn’t the biggest fan of christmas. winter in minnesota wasn’t her favorite thing in the world, and neither was exchanging gifts with her family. but the thing she looked forward to the least was the christmas photo. 

every year, her family met at JCPenny in pre-planned outfits. the christmas photo was amy’s chance to show everyone and their grandmothers that she’d done divorce correctly. to flaunt her perfectly blended family. 

and paige wanted to give her that. so every year, she put on that stupid red dress and let her mom curl her hair. she wore the heels and the ugly pearl earrings and the pink lip gloss. she’d only tried to do it differently once and that taught paige that obedience was best in regards to her mother. 

she promised herself this year would be different. that she’d wear the clothes azzi got her because azzi wanted her to be comfortable— because azzi said she deserved to be comfortable. but her hands were shaking as she looked at the slacks she’d just ironed. 

all she could think about was her mother’s face. the disgust and shame. 

there was only so much pride you could have in yourself when your mother was disgusted by you. only so much confidence you could walk with when your mother made it her mission to break you. 

paige had known how her life would go for a while. she’d never be able to bring a girl home. her mother wouldn’t give her away, and her father wouldn’t walk her down the aisle. her children would never know her family, they’d never look through her baby books or be spoiled by grandma. 

she’d been single because she knew the minute she met a girl worth keeping, she’d never see her family again. so she was careful with who she went out with, careful with how she went about relationships.

since she’d been home for christmas, she was sure she’d found that girl— that woman. of course, it just had to be her father’s girlfriend. not only was it a woman paige’s mom liked, but a woman her father had already claimed. 

paige slammed her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. she cursed herself for fucking up the routine she’d mastered. she should have stayed away. she should have left the fucking clothes. returned them. burned them. something. 

her door opened without a knock. 

it was azzi in the dress paige had fucked her in the day before. only now, she had her hair pressed into big curls. “your dad sent me to—” she took one look at paige and lost her sly smirk. “what’s wrong?”

paige crumbled again, shaking her head in her hands. “i can’t do it, az.” she choked out. 

azzi put a hand on paige’s shoulder and crouched down in front of her. paige thought her dress was too tight for that to be comfortable. “do what, sweetheart?”

she waved at the outfit spread the mattress beside her. “the c-clothes. i was gonna wear the clothes you got me but i– i can’t.”

she cried some more, not looking at azzi but resting her head on the woman’s forearm.

“hey,” azzi cooed. 

paige didn’t respond, she kept crying. 

then, firmer this time, azzi said, “look at me, paige.”

paige opened her eyes instantly, popping her head up and trying to pull it together. 

azzi held paige’s face in her hands and kissed just beside her nose. 

“you can wear whatever you want to.” rubbed at paige’s tears, keeping her brown saucers on paige’s blue ones. “amy doesn’t get a say in what you wear. she doesn’t get a say in who you love. it’s your life— your happiness. not hers. do you understand?”

more tears poured from paige’s eyes. no one had ever said that to her. no one had ever made her feel the way azzi did. security was new to her, as was feeling validated for anything other than throwing a ball in a hoop. 

but there azzi was. holding paige and wiping her tears and ruining her lip combo by kissing paige’s face. 

paige nodded and tried not to fall apart completely. 

“good.” azzi smiled. “now put your clothes on and i’ll see you at the mall. okay?”

paige nodded again and with a wobbly voice said, “okay.”

azzi stood up and peered down at paige before bending and pressing a closed mouth but world shattering kiss to her lips. 

“good girl.” she whispered, wiping her makeup off of paige’s lips. 

──

paige sat in her dad’s car for fifteen minutes. the mall was packed with children wanting pictures with santa and parents forgetting gifts for family they didn’t really care about. she didn’t need to go inside to know that the people of edina, minnesota were in a frenzy. 

the sweater fit her perfectly. the slacks fit her perfectly. the loafers she bought complimented the outfit perfectly. her accessories matched perfectly. 

paige looked good. she looked perfect. 

she wanted to remember that. she kept saying it. 

you look good. this is a good outfit. 

this is christmas and festive and azzi knew what she was doing when she bought it. 

there is nothing wrong. with your fucking. clothes. 

she hadn’t fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.

she hadn’t fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.

when she got to the photography section of the JCPenny, paige saw azzi first. she was talking to taylor and playing with the pink diamond laying on her chest. 

her dress was black and tight with a black fur trim around the top and the wrists. you wouldn’t know it was a christmas photoshoot if she didn’t have a ridiculously large red bow at the top of her ponytail. her shoulders were out and dusted with body glitter that paige wanted nothing more than to lick off of her. her had paige’s christmas gift to her on her feet, and small but chunky silver hoops to match her necklace. 

looking at azzi laugh, paige thought i can do this. 

she stepped in and everyone looked at her. azzi smiled so wide, paige could see her gums. taylor’s eyes bugged out of her head. bob face palmed. dan looked at amy. amy turned fire hydrant red. 

“paige.” her mom seethed. 

paige sighed and squared her shoulders. “mom.”

“we don’t have time for this,” her mom approached her and pushed at her bicep. she pointed to the door. “go change.”

she shrugged her mother off of her. “this is what i’m wearing, mom.” 

she was standing on it. she looked to azzi, who nodded in solidarity. taylor was holding azzi’s hand, squeezing so hard her veins were popping out. 

“no it isn’t,” amy shook her head.“go put on the dress i bought you. did you even bring it?”

paige didn’t even take the dress out of it’s box. 

“no, i didn’t bring it because this is what i’m wearing.”

shaking her head again, amy pointed at paige’s body. “that’s not appropriate.”

paige deadpanned and tilted her head in dan’s direction. “it’s almost the exact same thing your husband is wearing.”

“paige,” dan sighed, stepping up to the two women. “your mother just wants things to go smoothly. why do you always have to provoke her?”

paige gawked “i’m no-”

 “paige’s outfit is perfectly fine.” 

she was interrupted by that same firm voice from earlier. azzi stepped up, dragging taylor with her.

“i think you look beautiful,” she smiled at paige before turning to taylor. “doesn’t she look beautiful?”

taylor looked between azzi and her dad with wide eyes. “i— yeah.”

paige nearly dropped her jaw. taylor was a few years younger than paige, but the two had grown up together. they’d never been close. taylor had never been kind to p, but she’d never been rude. she was just always there.

azzi let taylor go and approached amy. “since i met your family, you’ve done nothing but berate your child and make her feel small. for her clothes, for the way she sits, the way she talks.” she counted on her fingers. “it’s pathetic, the way you can’t open your small mind and show compassion to this girl.”

paige couldn’t help but gape at the only person in the history of the universe to defend her. azzi fudd was standing up for her. she was in her mother’s face, lording over her in the heels paige bought her. 

the heat in her eyes was fascinating.

“if you’re provoked by your daughter in sweater, that’s a you issue.” she pointed at amy’s head. “all she wants is to make you happy and be herself. i watch her bite her tongue every time you speak because she doesn’t want to provoke you.” 

paige could have kissed her and blew shit up even more. she wanted to cry and smile and scream all at once. 

“and you.” azzi turned to bob, who’d been scratching his neck this whole time. “you never have her back. you roll over for your ex-wife like a yorkie but tell me how bad you feel for your daughter.” 

paige looked at her father, who seemed like he wanted to crawl in a hole. 

doesn’t feel good, does it bitch?

azzi looked at bob, then dan, then dead at amy. “you’re all so sick and so sad and i’m tired of watching it.” 

she headed to door, but paige’s dad grabbed at her. “azzi wait—”

she shrugged him off, shaking her head. “talk to your kid, robert.”

he turned to paige, who was trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. “paige?”

not right now, pops.” she shook her head, too, before walking out the door. 

she found azzi sitting in the waiting area. she sat beside her, not looking at her.

“thanks.” she mumbled. “i could have defended myself, but thank you.”

azzi shook her head. “they wouldn’t let you.” she cut her eyes like she was still looking at paige’s mom. “ i hate when she doesn’t let you speak.”

paige shrugged. and turned to azzi who still looked homicidal. she rubbed at the woman’s back. “it’s okay.” 

she’d been through this a million times. she’d cry about it later. once she was alone and had no choice but to think, paige would cry about this whole thing. she’d imagine comebacks and scream into her pillow and punch her mattress until kingdom came. but for now, she was okay. 

“no, it’s not.” azzi insisted, whipping her head to paige. her eyes were red and glossy. 

 “what gives her the fucking right to talk to you that way?” her voice cracked and she rolled her eyes as she wiped them. “god, and your father is so spineless.”

paige knew she was in love right then. it didn’t matter that azzi wasn’t hers, or that she was eight years older. the logistics were out the window because paige was in love. 

“az.” she grabbed both of azzi’s shoulders. “i’m okay for now.”

azzi looked over her face and sniffled. “are you sure?” 

paige smiled and nodded. “yes.”

azzi reached across the armrest and took paige in her arms. paige nearly melted. she hugged her back and nuzzled her face into the woman’s neck, inhaling her scent. 

she felt peace there. like nothing would hurt ever again. the feeling made her want to do crazy shit, like kiss azzi in the JCPenny photography waiting room.  

“i really like you, azzi.” paige blurted out, pulling out the hug but still holding azzi’s elbows. 

 “like this isn’t just sex for me. i know you’re with my dad right now but we both know you don’t wanna be. you could be with me— i wanna be with you. and i know i’m at school right now but i graduate next year and i’ll be home more often because i’m pretty sure my parents never wanna see me again and— and we can be together, az.”

she sucked in a breath and searched azzi’s face for an answer. the woman was still holding paige’s arms, but she looked so far away. dread took over paige’s entire being. 

“what?” she let go of azzi. “you—” her voice broke,  “you don’t wanna be with me?”

just the thought had paige nauseous. she’d misread this whole thing. how fucking stupid could she be?

she never got what she wanted and she knew that. she’d known that her whole life. she’d clawed her way through life with scraps of approval and enough false confidence to fill a well. she had a routine. she had a systematic way of going about things and she let this woman— her dad’s fucking girlfriend— give her hope. 

she’d fallen for azzi’s whole you deserve it bullshit and let herself get excited. that was the worst part. she knew better. she should have expected this. 

she should have expected azzi to stay with bob. paige knew he’d never deserve azzi. that he didn’t have what it took to make her happy. she’d seen azzi happy. she knew azzi’s real smile well, and she’d never seen it directed at bob. 

azzi reached for her, “that’s not it—”

paige pulled away from her, causing azzi to stop her sentence. her breath trembled with betrayal. 

azzi’s lips parted, whatever she was about to say stuck in her mouth. she went to speak again but the door to the waiting area slammed open. 

bob stood at the threshold, eyes bouncing from paige to azzi with a low brows and that stupid, clueless twinkle in his eyes.

and suddenly, time was frozen.

paige looked at her father. her father looked at his girlfriend. his girlfriend looked at paige. 

paige felt her heart pounding in her throat. she watched azzi’d face flash with confusion, then guilt, then something softer. and then bob opened his mouth. 

“p, can we talk?” her asked, painfully unaware of the clusterfuck he’d just interrupted. 

paige opened her mouth. nothing came out.

azzi shifted in her seat, just enough for her knee to brush paige’s. it was like a tether. a small, wordless one, but a tether nonetheless. paige’s heart clenched. 

paige looked at her father. 

her father looked at his girlfriend. 

his girlfriend looked at paige.

2025

It’s a warm, breezy Tuesday in Connecticut, one of your rare off days, and this is quite possibly the last place you’d expect yourself to be.

Standing before you is an old antique shop. It’s a block away from the apartment you share with your girlfriend, Paige Bueckers, and you pass it every day on your morning jog. It’s rustic, worn at the edges, but there’s something softer about its unassuming visage today. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re out a little later than usual – Paige had an afternoon practice compared to her typical morning ones, so the two of you had lounged in bed for a little longer, soaking in the time together.

Whatever the reason, there was something in the air that compelled you to stop by. So you do.

The sign that hangs over the door is rusted, hanging loosely from one tarnished chain, its words unrecognizable from how time has eroded it. A bell chimes happily as you push the door open. Immediately, you’re hit with the scent of aged paper, ink, and something else that is distinctly vintage. The walls are lined with various art pieces, antique furniture tucked neatly into the crevices of the shop with tan price tags attached. You’re wrought with a familiar sense of nostalgia; there’s something so incredibly touching about the fact that everything in this store had belonged to somebody once, had been something of value, something to take care of. Everything is still in perfect condition. It’s beautiful to know that after someone is long gone, there is still someone out there who will cherish their belongings and take care of them the same way they had.

You gaze around the shop, taking everything in, your steps slow and methodical. You were never a patient shopper, always seeking to get in and get out, but it feels as though the shop is trying to tell you something – trying to show you something. You wander, studying the art, the intricate carvings on aged furniture, until you make your way to the check-out counter. The clerk is absent, although there’s a cardboard box full of old pictures – a black and white photo of a bride, toddlers playing soccer, an elderly couple on a porch swing.

There’s something achingly familiar about them. It makes your heart swell, makes you wrack your brain to discern where you’ve seen these photos before. You sift through the rest, lingering on a few; there’s one of a couple laughing on the porch of what you assume to be their first house, a photo of two people embracing – one is wearing an aged military uniform, which makes your face soften, and the third is two teenagers holding hands, dressed fashionably. That one makes you smile as you take in the lovestruck expression on their faces.

Still, there’s something about the photos that give you pause. You pull out your phone, navigating to FaceTime, and you call the one number you know will pick up no matter what.

The line clicks through and Paige’s face fills your screen. She’s slightly out of breath, her face flushed from the exertion of practice, hair messy and sweat beading at her temples. Despite that, she grins, a sort of smile that’s reserved only for you. “Hey, baby,” she greets, her voice soft, which brings a smile to your face as well. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” you say back. “Sorry, I know you’re at practice–”

“We finished early, but I always got time for you,” she promises. “You know that.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I was on my jog, but you know that antique shop in town?” Paige hums in affirmation. “Something told me to go in, so I did. Look at some of these photos I found.” You flip the FaceTime camera, positioning your phone over your collection of photos. Paige leans in a little closer to see, her brows drawing together in concentration.

“They feel…really familiar,” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “Like I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you exclaim. “It’s so weird. It’s like I know these people.”

“Wait, go back to that one,” Paige requests. “The black and white one, military uniform.” Doing as instructed, you pull that one to the forefront of the stack, gazing at them expectantly. That’s when you truly take a closer look, recognizing the expressions on the couple’s faces, their facial features. Your breath hitches just as Paige says, “Why do they kinda look like–”

“Us,” you finish.

“Yeah,” Paige murmurs, a little awestruck. “I can’t explain it but like – I can feel it.”

You flip the photo around, your eyes catching on the date on the back, and the subsequent memory hits you like a truck.

1944

It’s a sweltering afternoon in May when your life changes.

Well, changes for the second time since 1941.

Three years ago, the United States declared war on Germany and the adjoining Axis powers following the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was a dramatic shift for the entire country, one that displaced just about every facet of life. Men were drafted, heading overseas to fight, leaving holes in the workforce. Although the reality was bleak and dire, you saw this as an opportunity – for independence, for some shred of equality, for freedom. With plenty of job openings as workers were joining the war effort, you landed a job at a shipyard along the coast.

It wasn’t easy. Far from it, actually. You worked long, uncomfortable hours, hardly fitting in time for a break. You, along with several other women, worked on building, repairing, and maintaining the ships that would be used to transport supplies or men overseas. For you, it was enough – the daily routine, the knowledge that you were contributing to something greater than yourself, that your efforts were making a difference. It was worth it.

You get off your shift sometime in the afternoon. You’ve been up since the early hours of the morning; now, you’re half-asleep, only going through the motions and letting pure muscle memory guide you down the busy streets. Something big is happening soon – you can feel it. You’ve noticed drastically more uniformed men on the streets, whispers of another draft; at this point, your suspicion is a matter of when and not if.

Barely aware of what’s in front of you, you turn the corner, colliding roughly with the person in front of you. They hardly move although you bounce backwards, knocked off balance by both your exhaustion and the fact that you’re so much smaller than the other person. You’re already bracing yourself to eat concrete, eyes shut tightly, when you realize you’re not toppling over; instead, there’s a pair of firm hands holding you by the arms, keeping you upright.

“You alright?”

Her voice is concerned, if a little gravelly, rough around the edges in a way that captures your attention immediately. You open your eyes, your breath hitching, because you’re sure this is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. The street is busy — everyone lost in their own little worlds moves right by you, but at this moment? It feels like time stops, like nothing exists except for you and the blonde woman before you. 

Her hair is pulled up in a tight, slick-back bun, the edges pressed and the golden waves reflecting in the early May sun. Her eyes are a deep blue, almost startling so, but there’s an evident kindness that softens the intensity. Her jaw is sharp, angular, her nose sloping elegantly despite the chisel, but what truly captures your attention is her stature — she’s the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, no less than six foot, and her broad shoulders fill out her khaki uniform service shirt. There’s an emblem pinned over her left breast, wing shaped in the aviator insignia. You’ve been staring for far too long already and the pilot is smiling like she’s caught you. Despite yourself, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, your voice even, which makes the expression on her face soften. 

“The flyboys would never let me live it down if I ran you over,” she says coyly, her hands lingering just a second longer on your arms before she finally steadies you. Her touch makes you flustered. “Hurtin’ a girl like you is cause for a national emergency.”

You laugh, a tinkling, carefree sound that betrays the way your heart pounds — in a good way. “You think you’re slick, don’t you?”

With gentle hands, she pulls you under the awning of the storefront you’re standing next to — an antiquities shop, according to the sign, keeping you out of the way of the bustling crowd as she murmurs, “I call it like I see it.”

With a teasing smile, you glance up at her, enjoying the way she looms over you far too much. It’s not intimidating, her stature, but it does make you feel warm all over. She’s long, toned, and you can see the muscle hidden behind her uniform. Her khaki button up is tucked neatly into the waistband of her sage green trousers, the top missing a few clasped buttons to reveal the dog tags hanging from her neck. She looks so put together, handsome and beautiful all in one, and maybe it’s the solemnity of the world around you, but this moment in time feels so peaceful, so right. “Do you, now?” you ask. “And what exactly are you seeing, flygirl?”

The nickname makes her preen, flashing her teeth in a smile that could surely ruin you. “Well,” she begins, her eyes scanning your figure in a way that looks as though she’s in a gallery staring at art, and not actually standing in the middle of a crowded street and staring at a woman who has just gotten off a twelve hour shift, covered in motor oil. Her gaze doesn’t make you feel objectified – far from it, but you’re beginning to think that you enjoy her attention. “I see this pretty girl – gorgeous is more like it, but I ain’t never been good with words. Just actions.” Her lips quirk slightly, reaching out with her thumb to wipe away a smudge of grease off of your cheekbone. Your face flushes, which only makes her features brighten like the clouds parting for the sun. “I see honesty. Ambition.”

“You can tell that much about me just from one look?” you say, a little amused.

“I’d tell you a hell of a lot more if it meant seein’ you again,” she confesses.

You scan her features, not quite sure what you’re searching for – deception, maybe, but you don’t see it. All you see is genuinity, a certain brand of hope that you haven’t seen in anyone’s expression in the last few years. You don’t know anything about her other than the fact that she’s a pilot, an aviator, but a slow smile spreads across your face the more you consider her request.

In times like these, you need all the joy you can get, no matter how short it is. So you teasingly lean in, relishing in the way her body eclipses yours as she melts into you, but you stop her with a hand to the chest. You know she could easily push past it, but you appreciate the way her body goes rigid, like she’s letting you make the call. Her brow raises – a challenge, maybe? – but despite herself, her smile grows, too.

“I’m not that easy,” you whisper to her, satisfied when her breath hitches. You press against her gently and she leans back, acquiescing. “You’re gonna have to work for it if you wanna see me so bad.”

“I can do that,” she promises, nodding emphatically, which makes you laugh quietly – she’d seemed so confident, so composed; now, she just seems eager to impress, to listen to every word you say.

Content, you take a step back, flashing one last smile. “See you soon, flygirl,” you say, enjoying the smitten look on her face, until –

“I never got your name, yardbird!” Her voice carries over the thrum of the crowd.

When you pause, glancing back at her, she seems amused, if not a little hopeful to hear you answer. But again – you’re not that easy. “Find me again and I’ll tell you,” you call back, your promise reaching her ears. You watch as her smile grows; even from afar, you can make out the determination in her eyes, the clear message of challenge accepted.

You’re not surprised to see her again.

If anything, you were almost expecting it. Her eyes had held a promise, the vow that she’d rise to the challenge. She didn’t become a pilot by being unambitious – you were sure that it was the complete opposite of that, having to work twice as hard as her flyboy companions. Any surprise you hold is because of how soon you see her.

It’s the next day and you’re walking home from the shipyard again, taking that same path you’ve taken hundreds of times across the years. You’re guided by muscle memory, weaving around the slow walkers and finding natural gaps in the crowd. When you turn the corner, the pilot is standing under the awning of the antiquities shop again, her hair pinned up in the same, sleek bun, her uniform crisp and pressed. She’s glancing at her wristwatch and as soon as you round the corner, stepping onto the street, she looks up and meets your eyes immediately. A smug smile graces her features.

“Found you,” she calls out, pushing herself off of the wall with a boot to the brick. You roll your eyes, amused, and you meet her in the middle by the doorway.

“You memorizing my schedule?” you ask her.

She shrugs a coy shoulder. “I’m committed,” she declares. “Said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me, right?”

“So she does listen,” you muse.

“Every word.” You smile at her, and it’s then that you realize she’s hiding her hands behind her back. Recognizing your curiosity, she reveals her hands, her smile softening – she’s holding a singular red rose, a rich, dark red in color, and you shouldn’t be surprised, but you are. “Think this is enough to finally earn your name, yardbird?”

You hum, tapping your chin dramatically, which draws a laugh from the aviator. Conceding, you take the rose from outstretched hands, much to her relief. You introduce yourself, listening as she tests the pronunciation on her tongue, smiling at how nice it sounds rolling off her tongue. Then, she sticks out her hand for you to shake as she states, “Paige Bueckers, airforce service pilot.”

She walks you home after that, her hand gentle yet protective over the small of your back. Your conversation is full of laughter, teasing, and Paige flirting with you unashamedly; you like it more than you would ever admit to her, although you’re certain she knows. Despite the fact that this is only your second conversation, there’s something about Paige that gives her the uncanny ability to understand you – it’s like a connection that goes deeper than your accidental run in from yesterday, like she was born to know you and you were born to know her. It’s like you’ve known Paige Bueckers your entire life. It’s a new feeling, but certainly not an unwelcome one.

This quickly becomes your routine. You wake up early, spend your morning and the better part of the afternoon at the shipyard, then Paige walks you home. Getting to know her comes as easy as breathing and being with her is almost enough to make you forget about the chaos in the world. It’s like Paige is your perfect complement. She came into your life in the most unexpected way possible, but the more time you spend with her, the more nights you invite her over for dinner, the more you realize that you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some nights she stays over. Paige blends so seamlessly into your routine that you wonder how you were ever complete without her at your side constantly. In the mornings, she’ll brew your coffee – how she figured out exactly how you took it, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t complaining, make your breakfast, massage your hands (because they were always sore and calloused from working on the ships all day), and walk you to the shipyard every day. At some point in time, she graduated from having a hand on your back to tangling your fingers together, which is something you truly relished in.

Over the month, the two of you get closer. Sometimes you stay at her house, waking up early enough to iron her uniform just to make her day a little easier. Paige tells you that you don’t have to go out of your way to do that for her, but secretly, you like it when she’s still in the grips of sleep and she gets out of bed to wrap her arms around you, resting her chin on your shoulder and watching you smooth out every wrinkle from her shirt. She’s warm, and soft, and dare you say it, she’s yours, even though neither of you have truly discussed it yet. It’s not traditional – in fact, nothing about the two of you is traditional; until recently, it wasn’t normal for women to work, let alone fly airplanes, let alone be in relationships together, but it works because it’s you and Paige. It works because although you’ll never have the vocabulary to describe it, you know this isn’t the first time you’ve met Paige. This isn’t the first time you’ve shared sleepy mornings together. It’s not even the first time you’ve loved her. Whether you truly realized it or not, you and Paige were a story centuries in the making, spanning across several years, decades, lifetimes.

But in a world like this, not everything can be perfect. Your suspicions were right from the very beginning.

“I have to leave,” Paige whispers to you on one quiet, sunny afternoon. It’s June 1st, barely fourteen hours into the day when Paige breaks the news. You’d been working since dawn. When Paige picked you up from the shipyard, she’d been noticeably dim, not nearly as lively on the walk back. You pressed, but she was silent, so you’d hoped that she was just tired from training; then, she’d suggested the two of you go to her backyard to lay in the sun. You curled up next to her, your chin on her chest, smiling as she pointed out the different shapes in the clouds (“That one’s definitely a boat,” you’d said, finger directed at a blob in the sky, to which Paige had responded with, “Y’think so, yardbird?”)

You knew Paige was an aviator. An aircraft service pilot, to be exact. You knew that eventually, she would be called in to fulfill a duty. You just never thought it would come so soon.

“When?” you murmur, willing your voice not to crack. Your hand was resting over her stomach – you can feel how her breathing comes to her quicker, hear the way her heart pounds in her chest. She wants to leave just as much as you want her to, but she knows she’s bound by obligation.

“Tomorrow morning,” she responds. Your heart aches and she can only tighten her arm around your shoulders, her chin pressing into your temple. “I’m flyin’ out to England – all of the Allies will be there. We’ll get debriefed, then… I’m flying twenty men into Normandy to invade Europe. After that, I’ll be transporting supplies and cargo between our bases and the frontlines.”

“Paige,” you try, but the lump in your throat cuts you off.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, trying for a lighthearted tone, but you can hear that it’s weighing on her just as much as it’s weighing on you. “I’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t make me a promise you can’t keep,” you beg, which makes Paige deflate, unable to continue being strong. “There’s no guarantees–”

“I know–”

“And don’t be reckless, you hear–”

“Yardbird,” Paige stresses, her voice cracking on the syllables of her nickname for you; despite the anguish on her face, there’s a calm acceptance, a sort of determination that looks like a promise to return. She squeezes your shoulder, directing your attention to her face. Tears are pooling on her waterline and if there’s one thing that’s always true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that irritating, unmistakable confidence of hers; you can see it reflected in her eyes. She believes that she’s coming home after this mission. You know better than to get your hopes up. “I promise you–”

“Don’t–”

She interrupts you with a stern look, desperation clouding her features now. She needs you to hear this. “I promise I’ll come home to you,” she vows. Paige’s voice softens to a whisper, her eyes searching yours to make sure you’re listening. “I don’t care what it takes. As soon as my mission is complete, I’ll be flying the first plane out of Europe. You and me?” Paige trails off, squeezing your hand like it’s a lifeline. “We aren’t done here. I still have to make you mine.” You murmur her name, but she shakes her head, needing to finish her thought. “I still have to introduce you to my family – to Drew. There’s so much more we have to do together – that we are going to do together. Okay?”

You gaze at her for a few achingly long moments, trying to memorize the blue of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hair is disheveled because she’s usually so put together and that thought alone makes fresh tears spring to your eyes. Before they can fall, she leans up, pressing her thumbs to your cheeks and her forehead to yours. “I’ll write you letters,” she promises. “Everyday.”

You breathe in deep, trying to remember her scent. You know that you still have the rest of the day with Paige, but it feels like she’s already overseas. Gathering yourself, you nod against her, trying to commit the way her skin feels on yours to memory. “Okay,” you repeat, giving in. Her fingers brush across your skin, tilting your head up to meet her eyes. She’s scanning your features for any hint of a falsehood, but the only thing she sees is a quiet acceptance, the kind that comes when you know you can’t argue anymore or stop something from happening.

She offers you a gentle, wobbly smile, and it does lift your spirits some. If Paige can believe so ardently in something, then so can you. “I’ll be okay,” she says again.

“I know,” you confess, because deep down, you really do think she’ll come back to you. From the very first moment you crossed paths, you learned that Paige was not one to back down. Now, when her choices are coming home to you or not coming home at all, her decision is simple.

Nothing changes when she leaves. You work your shifts, mind obviously elsewhere, but with what you know about her deployment, you know that you can’t dwell on it too much. You have a heftier workload now, maintaining and fixing the ships, so you get lost in the routine.

The bright spot of your week is the first letter comes a few days after she leaves. Somehow, the worn paper smells like her, and you smile at the sign of her looping scrawl, the borderline chicken scratch handwriting. It makes you think of all of the times she’d leave you notes across your house, reminding you that you’re beautiful and that she’s thinking of you. The memory makes your chest ache, so you push it to the back of your mind.

June 3, 1944

To my yardbird,

I just landed in England. It’s very busy here. It’s beautiful, too, and I think you’d like it. I can see us walking down the cobblestone streets together, maybe sometime in the future when the vendors and stalls are in business again. I would probably say something annoying and you’d shake your head, amused and trying to hide your smile, but I would know.

How are you doing? How is the shipyard? The hibiscuses we planted in May? I want to hear everything.

When I sat down to write this, I thought the words would come easy to me. I spent my entire flight thinking of what I would say to you, what I would ask. I thought it would be easy to tell you how desperately I want you and how I count down the hours until I get to see you again. Maybe God’s honest truth is that these aren’t understandings that can be summarized in one single letter – or truths that can’t be summarized at all.

Do you ever think about how you can look up and see the same sky as me, the same stars? I’ve spent a lot of time in the air. I know the clouds like the back of my hand, the way they move, the way the wind currents will guide me home. I know more about the sky than I know of the earth. In my profession, it’s hard to stay grounded – literally and figuratively, but my time with you has reminded me that there is an importance in returning to the soil, spreading my roots, seeking out a future I previously thought I couldn’t afford. You’ve given me hope, a dream, a love.

On my flight to England, I looked to the west and I saw a star. It shone brighter than the rest, glimmering and sparkling despite the fading night. As I’m writing this, I’m staring at the very same star. It makes me feel as though we aren’t so far apart right now, that you could look up and see what I’m seeing. You and I, we’re still connected, two ends of a red string coated in something cosmic and everlasting. When I look to the sky, it’s like I’m looking at you.

I will be home soon. That is my one promise to you. Until then, I hope you’ll look to the sky and look for me, too.

Yours,

–P

You draft your response immediately and send it off with the mail carrier before evening. You don’t know when it will get to her or if she’ll have much time to write back, but before you go to bed that night, you step outside and direct your attention to the western sky. You spot the star she was referring to almost immediately, the way it twinkles against a dark canvas; despite the ache in your heart, looking at it makes you feel a little less alone.

June 7, 1944

To my flygirl,

You make England sound so peaceful. I’m sure it is made all the more beautiful a country by you being in it. I would love to visit with you, when the world is all right and it’s a warm, summer day. Even if we just explore the cities, you have a way of making each moment feel more significant. You turn the mundane into a memory. Wherever you go, you leave a trail of magic behind you, and I am endlessly blessed that God has put me on this earth with you if only so I could follow it.

I’m holding up. The days are long and the nights are short and I miss you more and more each day you’re gone. According to the radios, you flew into Normandy yesterday and the invasion began. I hope you stay safe. The shipyard is busy – we are sending out more and more ships everyday for cargo and for men. Even more come back for repairs. I rarely get a break as of late, although I know my job is an important one. The hibiscuses are healthy, but they bloomed a little brighter when you were here to care for them. I don’t know how you do it. It is as though these things know you – they know you’re gentle, and kind, and that you have this nourishing, uplifting factor about you. They know of your love as well as I do, of what it is like to be without it.

I find myself writing and then pausing. I have so many things I would like to say to you but this paper can only hold so many of my thoughts. I agree that one letter is not enough to express myself fully. However, I know not to worry. You are thoughtful in ways most people never think to be and you have always been talented in understanding me before I’ve been able to understand myself. There are many things you know but I do like saying them. I miss you – isn’t it funny how we always come back to this? I miss you in a way that makes my chest ache. I miss having you in bed next to me and I miss the way you sing in the mornings. I miss you because you are everything I didn’t know I needed and more than I ever thought I deserved.

Remembering that you are under the same sky as me makes me feel a little less alone. Remembering that you see the same stars, the same moon, the same sun reassures me you aren’t so far away. Remembering that you feel the same love reminds me that you’ll be home soon.

With love,

Your yardbird

Over the course of the next several weeks, you continue to work. You continue to gaze at the sky before bed, imagining Paige doing the same before she goes to sleep. You write to her and you read the letters she sends you. They always start the same – an affectionate “To my yardbird” that never fails to bring a smile to your face. She tells you about her days, never once mentioning the toils of the war, only the beauty of the nature around her in spite of the damages around it. She tells you about the other women airforce service pilots – the WASPs – in her platoon and their ineffable courage. Paige tells you about the ones vying to return home to their families, too, and their unshakable determination to make it home.

You reread all of her letters when the sun goes down. Each and every one of them, starting with the one dated from June 3 to her most recent one. At this point, you have all of her letters memorized from the penmanship to the content. You spend hours with your hands clasped as you utter your hopes, prayers, a constant wish for her to be safe.

The weeks tick by. There’s nothing of note on the radio. You get lost in the rhythm of working, of thinking about Paige, of writing letters to her and handing them off to the mail carrier with the same unwavering expression of hope. You remind yourself that you and Paige aren’t done here, and that she’ll be back soon.

Then, her letters slow down ever so slightly. The Allies are pushing for one more coordinated attack, she’d written to you. I’ll be in the air frequently.

All you could do was wait. And hope. And work.

So, you do.

Four more weeks pass by. In that time span, you only get one letter from Paige in the second week, then she’s silent for the next two.

You try to not let the worry ruin your life.

On August 25, the radio at the shipyard crackles to life, announcing, “The Allied advance has liberated France. The Germans are in full retreat.”

You felt as though you could breathe a little easier, but you were still sick without the knowledge of whether or not Paige was okay. You don’t hear anything for two days.

On August 27, you’re leaving work early, a rare happenstance. Given the relative silence of the last few days of the invasion, you and the other women were able to finish repairs fully on the current batch of ships you were working on and you were waiting to get the damaged ones back from overseas. With nothing else to do, you walk your worn path back home, letting pure exhaustion and muscle memory guide you home. You’re too tired to even think, but you do glance up at the antiquities shop as you pass by. It had become a habit over the last twelve weeks, bringing a smile to your face as you remember the day you and Paige had met.

But you stop in your tracks, letting the bustle of the crowd pass you by as you gawk. Part of you can’t believe it, half-tempted to rub your eyes, convinced you’re in the middle of a dream or that the sheer exhaustion of the past three months has finally caught up with you. All you can do is stare, until–

Paige Bueckers cocks one of her signature, amused smiles, her eyes relieved and fatigued all at the same time. Her hair lacks its usual gel, the edges unruly. Her uniform top is buttoned one lower than usual, exposing the undershirt she’s wearing, and the hem is barely tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She doesn’t look injured, just like she could use a really long nap, but the sight of her makes your heart leap out of your chest.

“You’re early today, yardbird,” she comments wryly, glancing down at her wristwatch. “You got a hot date?”

You drop your bag at your feet, coming into her personal space with three quick strides. Judging by her expression, it’s clear she wasn’t expecting this reaction from you, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you cup her cheeks, standing on the tips of your toes to kiss her. Paige melts into you completely, her arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against her with an overwhelming amount of relief. She sighs against you, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, but your hands tremble on her face as you taste the salt on her lips. You can’t believe that she’s here right now. After twelve weeks of aching, of hoping, of believing, she’s here. 

You break away from her when your lungs burn, needing to breathe. Despite the tears, she’s still smiling when she presses her forehead to yours, her eyelids slipping shut like she just needs to absorb the moment and breathe you in. You do the same, your hands sliding down to tangle in the fabric of her shirt. She’s firm, she’s warm, she’s alive and she’s in front of you and you have possibly everything you’ve ever wanted right here in front of you. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper into her chest, your voice a little muffled, but Paige’s shoulders shake with laughter, dissolving all of the tension left in your body.

“I told you,” she murmurs, her chin pressing into your temple as she holds you close, “I’d come home to you.”

And if there’s one thing that’s true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that she doesn’t break a promise. Not this one, and certainly not the one she makes to you almost a year and a half later in her backyard when the two of you exchange private vows during a quiet, peaceful, summer afternoon, promising to love each other for the rest of your lives.

2025

As quickly as the memory comes to you, it disappears just as fast, leaving you in a daze. You blink once, twice, wondering if you’d just imagined it all or if that was real. Glancing back down at the photo in front of you, the two women embracing in the middle of a crowded street – one a flygirl, one a yardbird, their features so similar and their expressions so loving, you think that it had felt too real to be fake.

“Hey, you alright?” Paige’s voice echoes from your call, concern laced in her tone, and despite yourself, you can’t help but crack a smile because those were the very first words the aviator had said to you. Perhaps there was more truth to it than you thought.

“I’m okay,” you promise, peering down at the photos again. An idea hits you all at once. “You said you finished practice early, right?” Your girlfriend hums, clearly confused with where you were going with this. “How quickly can you get to this antique store?”

Paige doesn’t keep you waiting too long. She makes it to you in record time, the jingle of the bell above the door capturing your attention. You glance up, spotting her, and the two of you share matching smiles as she strides closer to press a kiss to your temple, squeezing your hip. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Lemme see these pictures.”

You hover silently next to her as she sifts through the pile of pictures you’d accumulated. She lingers on the black and white photo of the pilot and the shipyard worker – describing that photo as you and Paige still feels a little too weird, but you watch as her brows furrow, her eyes lighting up with something that looks like recognition. You don’t even have to ask to know that she’s feeling the exact same thing that you did.

“This is insane,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes you laugh a little, amused. Paige holds the photo gently in one of her hands as she looks through the others, finding one of two teenagers holding hands on their way to a dance, presumably, considering the way they’re dressed. They don’t look as similar to you and Paige as the first photo did, but it still brings back a sense of nostalgia that Paige picks up on, too. “You remember prom? Junior year at Hopkins?” your girlfriend asks, nudging you gently.

You resist rolling your eyes. “How could I not?” you say sarcastically. “Someone saran-wrapped the doors so tightly that the principal had to call the fire department just so we could get in.” Paige laughs. Affection blooms in your chest despite yourself, and you grin, too. “We made the best of it, didn’t we?” Paige hums in affirmation, brushing her fingers across the photo before you before picking up another one. It’s two people laughing on a porch. You can tell they’re lovers by their closeness. “Remember when I rented my first apartment and you helped me move in?”

Her lips curl into a fond smirk. By help you mean Paige stayed over every night for a week straight, delaying your unpacking and “breaking in the new crib,” whatever that meant. You’d enlisted her to help with your furniture, your decor, and building shelves, but you’d go to bed in her arms and wake up to all of your furniture in completely different spots. “Oh no,” Paige would whine, a terrible actress to this day. “Guess I gotta stay and help you fix this.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was intentionally waking up at night and “inconveniencing” you just so she could stay a little longer and annoy you, but you suppose the real kicker was she never really needed an excuse to be near you, anyway. You would have let her stay for the week even if it meant she didn’t fuck up the way your furniture was arranged.

“I still dunno why your furniture kept moving,” she muses, still committed to the bit. “You ever call maintenance? Or security or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes for real this time, pressing a little closer. She raises her arm to rest it over your shoulders. You pick up a photo of a 30’s bride, her veil long over her face. It wasn’t a secret that you wanted to marry Paige someday – the two of you had been together since high school and you both had discussed as much; now, she was entering her final March Madness tournament as a Husky. The two of you were so interwoven into the fabric of each other’s lives that you were sure you would be together until one of you took your last breath.

“You look pretty in white,” she comments off-handedly, like she’s slick, but you know better.

You grin. “You think so?” you ask coyly. She hums again, a smile of her own growing on her features the more she stares at the picture of the bride. “Well, I think you look pretty good in a suit, too.”

“Oh, little ole me?” she croons, faux shyness lacing her tone.

“You’re so annoying,” you say.

“You’ve loved me since we were fourteen,” she reminds you – as if you’d ever forget it. “You’re stuck with me at this point.”

The truth was, you’d be content to be stuck with her for the rest of your life. The other truth was that Paige’s ego was already so dangerously over-inflated that it’s days away from popping like a balloon with too much helium, so you couldn’t possibly admit that to her. The third truth was that Paige knows you love her, just as she loves you, so she didn’t need you to admit it to her, anyhow. The both of you were stuck with each other, not that either of you minded.

“Let’s get these?” you request, and Paige nods, scooping up your selected photos in her gentle hands.

But it still feels like you’re missing something. You have your photos, the memory of a life long passed – which reminds you; you and Paige will be having a lengthy conversation about that memory later today – but it feels as though you haven’t seen everything the universe clearly wants you to see. So you link hands with Paige, scanning the shop once more as you search for the missing piece.

It’s Paige who actually locates it after a few moments of walking. She glances at you meaningfully, guiding you down a row of bookshelves, eyes roaming over its contents like she knows exactly what she’s looking for. At the very end of the line, there’s an old, dusty, leatherbound book covered in cobwebs laying flat on an antique table, as though someone pulled it off the shelves to read and then forgot about it. Paige exhales like it was exactly what she was looking for.

She drops your hand to brush the back of her hand over the front cover, getting rid of the dust and the cobwebs, and then immediately sneezes. It makes you choke on a giggle, the mystery and the intrigue of the moment softened by Paige’s incessant allergies, and the tips of her ears flush red as you whisper a quiet, “Bless you.”

When the cover is clean, she wipes her hands on her shorts and opens the book carefully to the front page. You peer over her shoulder again. The penmanship is in neat cursive, the ink fading with time, but still legible enough for you to read. There’s a date in the top right corner reading 1543 September 9. Paige whistles lowly, holding the book a lot more gingerly now, which amuses you a little bit.

You look at the first line, reading, “Father procured me this journal to document my life and my emotions. He believes that it will help regulate me and, in quote, save me from this phase of rebellion lest I make a mockery of the crown. I am only eighteen. Surely, he must understand that the life of a princess is not one for me.”

Paige blinks once. “Well, that’s heavy.”

“Paige, she’s eighteen.”

“Technically, like…” your girlfriend pauses to do the math in her head, “...Four hundred and…eighty sum’.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and when you reach out to turn the page, you’re hit with another memory – only this time, you know that Paige is seeing it too.

1543

“Princess, your father is just trying to look out for you. He is just…a little misguided.”

You huff indignantly as you drag your brush through your hair. You truly do not mean to be this dramatic, but indignance just seems to be the main emotion that your father manages to evoke from you. Ever since you turned eighteen, the “of age” marker determining your eligibility to officially inherit the throne, the King – your father – has been nothing short of particular. Exacting. Expectant. If you’re not studying with your tutor, you’re listening in on his meetings, learning the ins and outs of how to run a country. You’re his only heir, so deep down, you understand why he demands so much from you. There’s a short time between now and when your father won’t be deemed fit to run a country. You’re just upset that being the princess means you can’t be you anymore.

There’s a certain degree of freedom you get used to growing up in the castle. You want for nothing – everything is provided for you, no question about it. You have the best education possible, learning from private tutors all over the world – math prodigies, language experts, philosophers. Everything you could possibly want is at the tip of your fingers. As of late, however, it seems that you may just be broken. 

You long to be outdoors, away from the castle and its stuffy, too large walls. You long to do things for enjoyment and not for obligation. You’re eighteen – you want to be with people your age, not the children of the entitled, pompous bureaucrats that your father rubs elbows with. You want to be you, not the Princess, not the heir to the throne, just you.

It seems there are just some luxuries that one cannot afford, not even monarchs with the world at their disposal.

“‘Misguided’ is one word for it,” you huff, trying to not catch too much of an attitude with your chambermaid, Carlotta. It is not her fault, not in the slightest, and she’s been there for you your entire life – even longer than your father has. “I do not want to be–”

Carlotta hushes you, a gentle, cautious hand resting over your shoulder. You clamp your mouth shut. “You must be careful, Princess,” she murmurs.

“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That was another thing you loathed about being a royal – the constant paranoia. It is a well-known fact that your father has enemies. Perhaps that is just a fact of life that comes with being king, a political figure, someone in charge of making decisions for millions of people. It is hard to be free when you’re tailed by your father’s most trusted knights and officers.

“It is all right,” Carlotta assures you. “Now come – you must be ready for the banquet.”

You nod, swallowing back your remark, and you allow Carlotta to help you into your gown.

The banquet goes as well as you were expecting. It’s loud, raucous, and full of minging, networking, and brown-nosing. You’re certain that you’ve never faked as many smiles or laughs as you have until today, but once it becomes socially acceptable, you sneak out the back door.

Or, as well as one can sneak when there’s a knight tasked with following your every move.

You glance over your shoulder. Just before the door slams shut, a tall figure in breathable armor slinks through the gap, following you at a respectable pace. However, there’s something that gives you pause.

As irritated as you are at the prospect of being tailed by your father’s appointed guards, you’ve made a habit of knowing who they are. Tristan is your usual suspect – he’s tall, lean, and his armor is recognizable. There’s a crest on his breastplate, signifying that he comes from a family of nobles, but this knight lacks the decorative chestpiece. Every other day, you’re then followed by Maximus. He is a little shorter than Tristan, although in place of a family crest, he has the traditional knight’s insignia – he doesn’t come from a family of nobles; rather, he’s an experienced knight who worked his way up through those ranks.

Whoever is wearing this suit of armor isn’t Tristan or Maximus, and you know that while your father makes a habit of annoying you, he wouldn’t reassign your patrols without telling you. Feeling your heart beat a little faster in your chest, you lengthen your strides, trying to get away from whoever is pursuing you without giving it away that you know they’re an enemy.

The issue with all of the country’s royals concentrated in one wing of the castle means that the large majority of the knights are assigned to that wing. That means there’s little protection through the back corridors. That means you need to find a way to get the knight off of your trail. There’s a variety of things you could be used for. A bargaining chip. An arranged marriage. Perhaps you’d just be killed entirely.

You hang a left, casting another glance over your shoulder. You don’t see the knight round the corner just yet, but you can hear his footsteps pick up speed. Realizing how dire your situation is now, you will your body into a run, thanking Carlotta for putting you in a pair of sandals instead of the heels your stylist had set out for you. The heavy clank of armor follows you down the winding halls as you breathlessly search for your exit.

To your right is a set of tall glass doors, leading into the palace gardens. Confident in being able to find somewhere to hide there, you push the doors open and run outside.

What you’re not expecting to find, however, is a tall blonde woman sparring in the dark. She spins on a dime, her sword lowering, but recognition flickers across her face once she realizes you’re the Princess. You briefly wonder if she’s a knight, too, or if she’s here to kill you, as well, but you throw all caution to the wind, deciding to trust the blue of her gaze. “Help me!” you exclaim, throwing yourself behind her just as the glass doors burst open and the turncoat knight barrels outside.

You realize, perhaps a little too late, that the blonde woman is not wearing armor. She’s dressed in a breathable navy and white tunic, the knight’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of worn boots. At the very least, she’s drastically more agile than her opponent (and taller, too, you note, although you remind yourself that there’s possibly a time and a place for those sorts of realizations). 

The armored knight draws his sword, a quiet acceptance in his body language like he knows he’ll have to go through the blonde knight to get to you, but she’s rigid, confident, rising to the challenge completely.

They collide in a flurry of sparks, loud groans, and the clang of metal against metal. The blonde, to her credit, doesn’t budge, but the force of their impact sends the armored knight stumbling. Using that to her advantage, she delivers a swift kick to his abdomen, which makes the knight fall to the ground completely. 

“Yield!” she barks, her blade against the soft part of his helmet.

He pauses, gazing up at her as if truly contemplating it, before his own leg jerks out, knocking her off balance. She grunts, dropping to one knee, and he uses her injury to kick her backwards as well. He digs his sword into the soil, using it to lift himself up. The knight spins his sword in his hand, remnants of dirt flying off of his blade, and he stalks towards her like a predator to his prey. All you can do is watch on in horror. 

You’re so focused on the other knight that you don’t notice her fingers digging into the dirt next to her until she comes up with a fistful of soil that she launches directly at his helmet. He recoils with a yelp, disoriented, and the blonde knight locates her sword, slashing out in a quick motion and catching the soft spot where his knee bends. He staggers again and she slams her hilt into his wrist, causing him to drop his sword. She grabs it immediately, dual wielding both blades, and the checkmate move comes when she kicks his injured leg. He falls to his knees and she crosses both of the swords under his neck again, chest heaving and sweat beading at her temple.

“Yield,” she commands. “I won’t ask again.”

He lifts his head ever so slightly, meeting your gaze across the garden. You stand your ground even though you’re rattled and you can feel your pulse in your fingertips. Barely eighteen and I’m already surviving assassination attempts, you think to yourself, Father would be proud. Then, he drops his head again, defeat in his posture. “...I yield.”

By the time he finishes his sentences, the garden doors burst open and more of your father’s nights enter the garden, brandishing their blades. They catch sight of the blonde knight, swords to your attacker’s neck, then settle their gaze on you, breathing heavily but not a hair out of place. “Arrest him,” one of the captains instructs, and another knight surges forward to deal with the attacker. “Secure the Princess. Alert the King immediately.”

The garden is a flurry of activity as the knights disperse. One group leaves as they drag away your attacker. Another group surrounds you as if forming a wall between you and any potential danger. Still, you can’t keep your eyes off of your savior, the blonde woman whose cheek is slightly smeared with blood. You’re not sure if it’s hers or his, but this isn’t a night you’re going to forget for a while – not because of the attempt on your life, but because of this knight’s bravery, her spur of the moment decision to put her life on the line for you, especially against an opponent with far more protection than her.

It’s nearly stupid. She’d behaved so recklessly, but it was her job. So why do you feel so drawn towards her?

Your father arrives with a security detail of his own. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from him, but he gives you a cursory look over, nodding in approval when he sees that you’re okay, before he turns to his men. “Who allowed this to happen?” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to, but you think he’s scarier like this – the deadly sort of calm that only comes out when someone is truly pissed. “Who allowed a turncoat knight to nearly kill my daughter?”

His men are notably silent. Your father scoffs, shaking his head, and he turns on his heel, probably ready to storm out until he catches sight of the blonde knight, standing solemnly in the corner. “Who are you?”

Her voice doesn’t waver when she answers, not meeting your father’s eyes out of respect. “Sir Paige Bueckers, Your Majesty.”

He glances at her – armorless, then he glances at the rest of the knights gathered – uniformed. “Why are you here?”

Paige hesitates, looking up to meet your eyes, a silent plea for help. “She saved me, Father,” you answer for her, drawing your father’s attention back to you. She relaxes slightly, gratitude in her expression. “I noticed the knight following me wasn’t one of my usual handlers. So I ran out here to flee and found Sir Paige.” Your father looks at Paige again, studying her in a new light. His quiet contemplation could mean a lot of things. Then, surprising everyone, you say, “Father, I want her reassigned to my guard detail immediately.”

Your father considers this for a few moments longer, then he turns to the captain. “See to it,” he orders. The captain nods emphatically. And with that, your Father returns indoors, his security detail following. The rest of the knights follow until it’s just you and Paige, who stares at you with a mix of shock and curiosity.

You nod at her, softening. “Come. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Paige, unsurprisingly, is not a woman of many words. You don’t expect her to initiate any sort of conversation with you given your status, but she does look at you – a lot – mostly when she thinks that you’re not aware of it. There is nothing inherently inappropriate about her gaze. You can tell she’s curious. You can also tell that she knows she has a duty to do. Her gaze flickers on and off you to scan the hallways for any sort of potential danger and her hand hovers over the hilt of the sword strapped to her waist as if someone would jump at you both from the shadows.

Functionally, she hasn’t said a single word to you since you met her, yet you battle the urge to get to know her. You know that would never be allowed – a royal fraternizing with a knight. It breaches every code of conduct and tradition that you’ve been raised to recite by memory. Despite your knowledge, there seems to be a pull between you and the knight, one that you’re finding harder and harder to resist as you watch her brows tent in concentration, her eyes studying everything about her surroundings as you lead her to the medic.

When the two of you reach the infirmary, she doesn’t say much else, either, only nodding or shaking her head when the physician asks questions like “Does it hurt when I do this?” or “Do you feel any pain here?” You do watch as her face screws up, discomfort in her features, when the physician pokes and prods at her knee.

She’s fortunate, according to the physician, that it is only bruised and she should expect to recover quickly. Taking an armored boot to the knee when you’re wearing only a thin tunic is usually grounds for a fracture or a broken bone. Paige takes the diagnosis in stride, her eyes trailing after the physician as she leaves the infirmary to fetch some herbs from the greenhouse, and shamelessly, your eyes find the knight again. She doesn’t glance at you, but you can tell that she’d like to, so you break the silence to say, “You don’t need to be so formal with me.”

Her throat bobs as she argues, “I do.” Then, as if you’d forgotten, she reminds you, “You’re the princess. Treating you otherwise would be disrespectful.”

You cock a wry smile. “And would disobeying my wishes not also be disrespectful, Sir Paige?”

She pauses, not expecting that one, and finally, she glances up to meet your eyes. Her eyes are startlingly blue, alert despite the exhaustion and the lingering pain of her battle, but they’re kind. They’re soft in a way you would never expect from a hardened knight. They’re gentle when they appraise you, studying your features, and her features relax as if she’s looking at you – truly looking at you – for the first time. “I suppose it would be, Princess,” she agrees. “I apologize.”

Your smile softens, too. “Considering you saved my life today, perhaps we can call it even?” you suggest, trying for a joking tone, and you find that it’s well-received when she chuckles. “Thank you for that, by the way. I would not be here without your courage.”

“I was just doing my duty,” she murmurs humbly. “My only wish is for you to not have had to witness that.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you say reflexively.

Paige glances at you again, her eyes lingering on your face before a slow smile curls on her lips. “I’m beginning to see that.”

You know she doesn’t intend to say that in any sort of way, but the warmth of her gaze, the approval in her eyes, and her words alone are enough to make your cheeks flush. It’s wrong – that much you’re sure of. You haven’t known the knight for very long, but there’s something so magnetic about her, like you’ve met her before, like you know you’ll be safe with her. This conversation feels like one you’ve had before. That thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. Paige just feels right.

Then, she raises her hand, rubbing her face, and she doesn’t realize that she’s reopened the small cut beneath her eye. “Oh,” you say, not nothing much of it as you reach out for a piece of gauze, “you’re bleeding.” Motioning to the wound and ignorant to the way Paige’s breath hitches, you ask, “May I?” She nods and you step between her parted legs, hovering over her as you gingerly reach out with the cotton, fingers light and delicate against her skin, cleaning away the blood. You and Paige are inches apart by now, and the sudden closeness makes your hand tremble, especially when your eyes flick up to meet Paige’s. The expression on her face is almost awestruck, reverent in a way that makes you forget about how dangerous this is. You don’t realize that you’ve planted your free hand on her shoulder, holding onto her to keep her from moving, nor do you realize how her hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white like she knows it would be wrong to touch you, but the way her breath stutters makes it so obvious that she’s desperate to regardless.

Sobering up, you lean back, red tinging your cheeks as Paige exhales deeply. The physician returns to the infirmary at that time, grinding together herbs in a mortar and pestle and muttering to herself absently. You and Paige exchange a glance, the heat of the previous moment softening as you both put some space between each other, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stumbled across something that you shouldn’t have – the chemistry between you and the knight. You’ve always been curious and daring by nature; you know yourself well enough to know that you’ll track down that spark and see where it goes, even if it means sweeping the ashes under the rug after it ignites into something you can’t quite stop.

For now, you have to play it smarter. All eyes are on you as you prepare to take the throne from your father, and the last thing you want to do is jeopardize Paige and her future, even if you’ve already done so by assigning her to your personal guard.

Beneath the professionalism, the practiced stoicism that you see right through, you recognize that very same spark reflected in Paige’s eyes – the curiosity, the determination, the willingness to press the match to the kindling if you’d so much as asked. You know this is risky, that this energy between you and Paige is something that will splinter the foundations of the life you’ve grown so accustomed to.

And the worst part of it?

You wouldn’t even mind if it did.

Paige assimilates seamlessly into your routine. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the knight, who adjusts to her new position with a startling quickness and efficiency. Given the recent attack on your life, your father arranged to have her moved to a room only a door down from yours in the Royal Wing of the palace, believing that having her close would allow her to protect you better. She becomes your shadow of sorts, although you had to put your foot down early on in your new…partnership, and force her to walk side by side with you instead of the infuriating ten or so feet away.

“Being close to me would keep me safer, wouldn’t it?” you’d questioned her, by no means trying to be coy about it.

Paige had smiled softly like she knew, amusement and acceptance in her features as she agreed, “I suppose it would, Princess.”

She follows you everywhere – your royal meetings, your appointments with your tutors, to the dining room, and well, if she’s found in your bedroom, listening to you ramble about your latest project, then you’d say it’s for your own protection as much as it’s for the growing friendship between the two of you. When Paige isn’t worried about her professionalism, she talks. A lot. It doesn’t bother you at all. You’re content to listen to her stories, her experiences, her life, how every choice she made throughout the years led her here. Selfishly, you’d think that inadvertently, her choices had led her to you, although you don’t voice that thought at all.

She grew up in a small village a few hours away by horseback – Storrs. It isn’t well known for much except for the cold winters that the locals loathe. She’d recounted her childhood with a fond smile on her face, even the uncomfortable parts like the time she’d hurt her knee severely while sparring or when her parents had divorced. Divorce wasn’t as familiar to you, having been raised in the castle where your father remained with your mother until she passed, even though there wasn’t any love between them after your birth and their failure to conceive a male heir – although that’s a story for another day. When you voiced as such, wondering about the casualness in which she and her parents viewed their separation, she’d merely shrugged and said, “Sometimes people just don’t feel the same love that they did before. Why stick around to force something when your heart’s not in it?”

You’d felt as though that applied to a little more than relationships, considering how you didn’t want to be queen. As much as you trusted Paige, you didn’t think it was the time nor the place to drop that kind of confession on her.

While there’s no more attempts on your life, Paige sticks by you fiercely. If it were anyone else, you’d probably be pissed at the lack of independence, but there’s something about Paige’s company that you cherish, even if it’s just her standing watch at the door while your tutor teaches you philosophy. You like having her around. That thought should scare you much more than it does. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like you’re free. Growing up, you’d never had many friends. Everyone your age was always too aristocratic, too pompous, too entitled. You’d tried, but you could just never get along with them – it was always like you were on the outside looking in no matter what you did differently. With Paige, it feels like you’re shedding all of the past desires to fit in. She makes you feel as though you don’t have to fight your way inside just to be accepted. She makes you feel as though there’s always a place you’ll belong, even if it’s just with her.

So while there aren’t any more attempts on your life, that doesn’t mean your life gets easier. As you progress in your training and you begin to take up more royal duties, there is an increase in the number of suitors that make their way through the castle. Most of them have been arranged by your father, seeking to find a husband to rule next to you – or rather, someone for you to stand next to while they rule. They’re either princes of distant kingdoms, or the high-ranking sons of nobles. You hate all of them. They’re either too old, too stuck-up, too arrogant, or too…male. You’d longed for visions of long, blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, the gentle way in which the knight spoke to you yet the fierce way she protected you. None of these men were her, and you could tell your father was becoming upset by how often you turned them away.

If you hated them, then you’re not quite sure what word to use to accurately portray the amount of disdain that Paige feels for them. You can see it in her expression alone, the white-hot hatred that burns in her eyes even as she speaks to you politely, calmly. You see it in the way she stands unyieldingly next to you, a hand poised over the hilt of her sword as if she was ready to dispose of whichever groveling idiot was trying to propose, if you wouldn’t deny them yourself. You see it in the way her entire demeanor shifts, the way she grows more confident when you’re alone and her hand curls around your waist and she dips her head down to your ear to whisper, “None of them deserve you. Not a single one of them.”

If Paige hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else, then you’re sure she ruins you completely after that.

At first, you think it’s just her commitment to duty. Paige’s entire job is to keep you safe, protected. If she feels as though these suitors would be too violent, too uncaring, too unfit for you, then you suppose she was well within her right as the princess’s protector to feel however she wanted to feel. Then, you think it’s just hate. She knows you almost as well as you know yourself, if not more. At this point, you’re both a little more than princess and knight. You’re friends who share a mutual duty to a kingdom. However, you realize all too late that it’s actually jealousy.

She stands behind you, her tall stature imposing and intimidating as she stares down the last suitor you had scheduled for today. He’s the prince from a kingdom down south. His name is Oscar and if you had to be honest, you got a bad feeling from him as soon as he strutted in, a black and red cape billowing behind him like he’s already king and has nothing to worry about. You’d even felt Paige stiffen behind you, but you promised your father you would at least talk to your suitors before rejecting them (and you were not keen on sitting through another lecture from him).

The interview goes terribly. You can feel Paige’s mood worsen the more Oscar speaks. He interrupts you countless times, talks over you, and when you do get to speak, he dismisses it like it’s trivial and continues rambling on about his success or his fortune or how well he could lead a kingdom. You knew the conversation was over as soon as he promised he wouldn’t take anymore than five mistresses and you had to stop Paige from jumping across the table and stabbing him entirely.

So, you politely tell him, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a potential king. I have to look after my people.”

You see the shift in his expression before he even raises a hand. You just couldn’t react fast enough to block the swing.

But Paige does. She catches Oscar’s wrist in her hand, her grip so tight that the tips of his fingers were turning purple and he was choking on pain. Then, she slams his hand into the wooden table before you, the surface almost splintering from the force of it. You can hear a sickening crunch, but all you do is raise your brows as Paige leans over you, her gaze set firmly on Oscar. “We’re done here,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening. “Raise a hand to the princess ever again and I’ll kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

You don’t hear what he says, too stunned to focus on anything but the vein that protrudes from Paige’s neck, the challenge laced in her tone, the way her response has left a warm feeling deep in your belly. He scurries out with a metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, the door slamming shut, and you and Paige are left alone in the conference chamber. Paige breathes heavily next to you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder in both consolation and apology, yet all you fixate on is the way your thoughts race.

Paige is saying something to you, but it sounds like you’re underwater. You push out your chair, standing as she rambles, and you turn on your heel to meet her eyes. There’s still a lingering fire in there although it dwindles the more she talks, concern and something else you can’t quite place taking precedence. Before you have the time to talk yourself out of it or remind yourself of how wrong this is, you curl your fists in the fabric of her tunic and you pull her down to your level.

She immediately freezes against you, the words caught in her throat releasing in the form of an indulgent groan as she finally registers that your lips are on hers. When she relaxes to kiss you back, the intensity is almost overwhelming, like the fire from earlier has returned. She grips your hips possessively, backing you into the table and lifting you onto it for better leverage, one hand dropping to hold your thigh and the other curling around the back of your neck. Paige leans forward, pressing against you like she couldn’t stand to leave any inch of space between you.

The kiss is hazy and it makes your mind spin in the best way possible. You sigh against her, welcoming the intrusion when her tongue swipes across your bottom lip, and she holds onto you like she’s scared that you’ll disappear if she lets go. Paige kisses you like you’re hers, which you may as well be. You’re hers to protect, hers to hold – not the princes’, not the nobles’, not anyone else’s.

When you both break away from each other, chests heaving, her voice is rough, low, wrecked when she whispers again, “None of them deserve you.” Her eyes scan yours, her thumb brushing across your pulse point and her breath hitching like she can feel exactly what she’s doing to you. “Not you, the princess. And especially not you, the girl whose heart is as pure as it is kind. The girl who I…”

You swallow thickly, feeling the heat in your cheeks and fighting the urge to pull her back into you as she trails off. “And you do?” you murmur. “Deserve me?”

“I’d fight a hundred men and a hundred men more if it meant proving that to you,” she vows. You know her well enough by now that you don’t need her to prove anything more to you. She already has. Your heart is hers. “This isn’t just a duty to me,” she confesses a few beats later, her voice hardly above a whisper like she’s confessing a secret. “It’s real. What you are to me is real. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Nothing will,” you say, confident and assured. “I’m safe with you.” Paige nods, her hands warm against your skin, and you press your temple to hers to admit, “For you, I’d run away and leave it all behind.”

You feel her freeze against you, surprise, mostly. She leans back to meet your eyes. “Princess, you don’t mean that,” she says quietly.

You nod vehemently, your fingers tightening in the fabric of her tunic. “I do, Paige, I swear it.” She softens, taking in the conviction in your tone. “I don’t want this – I don’t want to marry someone else. I don’t want to be the queen. I want you, a life of peace, where I don’t have to worry that someone will try to kill me or if I’m making a decision that will kill my people. I want peace.”

The silence lingers. There’s a realization in the wake of your declaration that in your position, you could never afford peace. Princesses don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. Knights don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. You know you’d give it up in a heartbeat if you could find the courage to. You study Paige’s features closely, waiting for her to speak. She swallows thickly before she does.

“Storrs,” she whispers, confusing you. “My village. We can go there – just say the word and I will take you, I swear it. I don’t owe anything to this kingdom. My loyalty is to you. We’ll be safe there, free, and you can do everything you’ve wanted – you can teach, you can explore–”

“Okay,” you agree.

Paige pauses. “What?” she asks, trying to keep the hope at bay.

“We’ll go to Storrs,” you repeat, a smile growing on your face.

“You mean it?” Paige murmurs, her voice cracking, and all you can truly do is cup her face in your hands, kissing her once more. This one is softer, the perfect seal to the promise you’ve just made to each other, and it feels more right than a crown on your head ever will. Her embrace makes you feel more secure than a legion of your father’s men ever could. You know in your heart that this is where you belong.

Happiness doesn’t last for too long. 

When you wake up the next morning, you can feel that something is off. Paige is usually already awake, standing guard at your door and waiting for you to come out for breakfast. Now, there’s an unusual silence that lingers and it makes you feel on edge.

Instead of Paige at your door, you find Carlotta, wearing an uncomfortable expression on her face. Dread wraps its fist around your heart, squeezing tight, and your chest hurts when you ask, “Carlotta, what’s going on?”

“Your father has requested your presence in the throne room immediately,” she says to you, her voice shaking. You swallow thickly, afraid of what waits for you. You cast an uneasy glance at the door to Paige’s room, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but still feeling as though something is terribly wrong. Carlotta follows behind you as you walk through the winding corridors, anxiety coursing through your veins.

The scene awaiting you in the throne room is not one you could have ever prepared yourself for. Your father sits idly atop his throne, an almost nonchalant laziness in his body language. He’s surrounded by his usual guard detail. Your body burns with anger when you realize Oscar is standing right next to him, his hand wrapped in gauze and a splint, a malicious expression on his face. But what truly devastates you, what makes fear seize your heart entirely is Paige held firmly in the knight captain’s grasp, her hands and ankles shackled. She looks no worse for wear, only disheveled and her bun mussed from an evident fight, but her eyes burn bright with hatred and something that looks like failure.

“My daughter,” the King calls across the room. Everyone directs their attention to you, but you’re not prepared for the amount of grief and shock on Paige’s, like she wasn’t expecting you to see her like this. “Come – we have much to discuss.”

There it is again. That same steely calm from the night in the gardens. Your father isn’t the kind of man to yell – people with power and trained men at their disposal have no need to raise their voices – which is why his demeanor in this situation makes you fearful. Not for yourself, but for Paige.

“I’m not a man who shies away from admitting when he’s wrong,” your father continues when you step closer. “Accountability makes for strong leaders. I’ve always told you that, haven’t I?” You scan his features, your gaze giving nothing away. He’s not looking for a response. “It seems I’ve made a mistake in knighting an individual. Where she goes, trouble follows, such as the night in the garden. And now, with the suitors.” Your father cocks his head, looking perplexed. “Prince Oscar has suffered several broken bones and a fractured wrist due to…your knight being unable to control her anger. Alas, it has come to my attention that she has also filled your head with lies, deceit, and empty promises.”

He stands, his sea of guards parting for him as he makes his way towards you, towards Paige. “If she wants to run away, so be it. If this turncoat knight no longer wants to give back to the kingdom that has made her, that has given her the life she has now, then so be it. What I will not allow is for her to manipulate my daughter – the Princess – into leaving with her.

“So,” he muses, ushering Prince Oscar forward, who gazes at you like he’s won. “We are here to make an example. The monarchy will not be mocked. My daughter, tomorrow at sunset, you will be wed to Prince Oscar. He will be your king and you will inherit the throne. And your knight –” he spits the word like it’s venom, clear distaste evident in his features, “–will be executed at nightfall for treason against the crown.”

Your ears are still ringing.

Your father’s revelation left you numb, reeling. You watched as his men dragged Paige out of the room, her eyes locked on yours in surprise, disbelief, and ever-present grief. Your father had more to say to you, but you weren’t listening. Being forced to marry Oscar of all suitors was at the back of your mind. All you could think about for hours on end was your knight will be executed at nightfall. The word executed circulated through your mind on repeat along with images of Paige’s eyes, betrayed and disappointed all at one.

This wasn’t the plan. You and Paige were supposed to run away. You were supposed to leave kingdom life behind and go to Storrs together. You were supposed to live a life of peace in a small village where the crown couldn’t possibly find you. You’re not supposed to marry Oscar, or watch the love of your life be executed. This was all so horribly wrong.

You’re confined to your room for the entire day, your father feeling as though you would find a way to escape or look for Paige. He knows you better than you’d expected. With nothing but time on your hands, you wait. You cry. You scream and you break the mirror in your room because when you look at it, all you can see is the way Paige had stood behind you as you asked for her opinion on your dress and her jaw had gone slack before she whispered, “I think you’re the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen.” You spiral, because you were so close to making it out but your father and Oscar have derailed your plan.

At nightfall, 24 hours away from Paige’s scheduled execution, Carlotta knocks at your door. She lets herself in when you don’t respond. You hardly look up, even when she takes a seat on the foot of your bed. She’s silent for a few moments before she says, “I’m sorry, Princess.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound scraping against your throat. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta.” Even if it was, you don’t want to think about it. This woman has raised you since you were a baby. You weren’t sure if you could ever handle that heartbreak.

“It’s not,” she agrees softly. She clears her throat. You can almost feel her hesitation. “I was next to your mother when she passed on,” she admits. That confession makes your heart skip a beat. “I held her hand as she was taking her final breaths. I’d loved her, you know. Your father never knew. He didn’t care to. But when I watched my life’s greatest love die, it was a pain unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. I thought a part of me died that day. Your mother, however, entrusted me with something special to her – a part of her. She made me promise to take care of her daughter – the Princess – and to this day, you are the most important person to me.”

“Carlotta,” you murmur, tears pooling in your eyes and your voice cracking. “What are you saying?”

“You love her,” she says, like it’s more fact than fiction, like it’s something as obvious as the sky is blue or the grass is green. “Sir Paige. She is your life’s greatest love. I couldn’t save my love. But there is still hope for yours.” She stands, drawing your attention as you feel her move. There is a folded piece of parchment in her hand. Carlotta presses it into your hands. “Read this, and do not lose your faith, Princess.”

Carlotta leaves before you can say – before you can ask anything else of her. Your mind spins as you look down at the paper in your hands, at Paige’s familiar, sloped handwriting. Fingers trembling, you unfold it, and you begin to read.

Princess,

I did not think I would get to speak with you after they dragged me out of the throne room in handcuffs, so you will have to forgive me if this letter is incoherent. It is difficult for me to wrap my head around the idea – the fact, rather, that I will be dying at nightfall tomorrow.

Being a knight, I had always known that my death would be imminent. My profession is not safe. My duty is to put my life on the line for the kingdom, for the king and the princess. I knew of that long before I picked up my sword for the first time. I had always imagined that it would be in combat – perhaps I would be fighting those hundred men and the hundred men more that I had spoken of. Perhaps I would be the lucky one and die of age after living a life of valor, dedication, and virtue. Execution had never crossed my mind.

If there is one part of my life that I could pick out and say is the greatest moment of it, I would say that meeting you is it. Not being knighted for the first time or my father teaching me how to wield a blade. It was you. It is always going to be you. You are my purpose, my reason for fighting. You have made my life worth it, even if we were only a short time.

I want you to know a few things. First, this is not your fault. If I knew the outcome from the very beginning, I would choose you everytime without question. A moment with you is worth an eternity wherever my soul takes me next. Second, do not give up. You are kind, courageous, brilliant – I know you will think of something. Third, I miss you. I have only been apart from you for a few hours, but I miss you; if I knew of a way to make you miss me the way that I do, I would never dare to make use of it for you are undeserving of such an all-consuming ache. The fourth is that I love you. I planned on telling you once we made it to Storrs, after I had introduced you to my family. You deserve to know.

You are my greatest love, Princess. In this life and the next I will never give up on searching for you.

Eternally,

–P

By midafternoon the day of your wedding and Paige’s execution, you can tell that something has shifted once more. The palace is eerily silent. Again. It almost makes you worry, but after considering that your life couldn’t get any worse, you decide that the silence is a problem for you in the future. For all intents and purposes, you’re still essentially trapped in your room, and you spent the better part of the night and the entire day leading up to this moment rereading Paige’s letter to you. It didn’t make you feel any better about the situation, but you try to remember Carlotta’s words to you. They give you strength when you feel like all else is failing.

The minutes tick by until you hear tapping on the glass door leading to your balcony. Believing it may only be a bird, you think nothing of it until the tapping persists, louder this time. The glass is textured, so you can’t see out of it, but you reach for the first sharp object you can find – in this case, it’s one of your heels – and you creep towards the door, pushing it open with caution.

You freeze immediately. The heel slips out of your grasp and Paige is standing before you, her tunic rumpled and exhaustion in her eyes, but she doesn’t look hurt, and that’s all you can truly be thankful for. “I was beginning to think you weren’t home,” she murmurs, a coy smile on her face that is not befitting of the moment, and you could sob as you throw your arms around her neck. She wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you off of your feet. Paige buries her face in your neck, breathing you in and sighing in relief – you’re both okay. You don’t know what to say, stammering through words that don’t make any sense, but Paige squeezes you a little tighter, shushing you.

After a moment, she places you back down on the ground, drinking you in like she can’t believe this is real. Then, she smiles softly. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says quietly. “Carlotta is waiting for us at the stables. Get your bag and whatever else you need. She’ll take us to Storrs.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, all you can do is nod, wiping your eyes as you retrieve the bag you’d packed after you and Paige agreed to leave. You make sure to slip into a pair of more comfortable shoes and you don’t forget to grab her letter stashed under your pillow. When you’re ready, she guides you down the wall of the palace and into the garden below, creeping through the bushes until you reach the stables. You hug Carlotta so tightly that she groans, laughing, and together, you, Paige, and Carlotta make the journey on horseback to her village.

Her village welcomes you and Carlotta in – they’re definitely a little shocked, but they’re happier to have Paige back and safe. She introduces you to her family, her mom, her dad, her step-parents, her brother and her step-siblings and they all treat you like one of their own, a blended family that’s no less full of love. They own a small little shop, one that dabbles in selling antiquities and artifacts from ages ago. You can see yourself splitting time between working there and teaching the village children, but most importantly, you can see yourself free, in love, and happier than you ever would have been in the castle. It will surely be a national emergency when the King realizes that the princess, the knight, and the chambermaid have all escaped, but you think that’s a problem for someone else.

For the record, Paige does tell you she loves you – in person, not through a letter – that night after you’ve been fully introduced to everyone and her mothers worked together to make a hearty dinner for you and Carlotta. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having – a love that’s wholly yours, a life to share with someone who cherishes you, and the freedom to live the life you’ve always wanted. You were always destined to find this – destined to find Paige, to love her, to give her your heart completely; the two of you have always been connected by that red string of fate and wherever your souls take you next, you know you’ll find her there, waiting for you.

2025

The memory fades and you and Paige blink in tandem, your hands still resting over the book as you look at each other. Almost no time has passed, although the both of you look like you’ve lived a whole new life entirely, which you may as well have. Paige breaks the silence to mutter, “I was a knight in a past life and in this one, I have to do homework?” Her disbelief makes you laugh, all of the tension dissolving as she joins in with you.

“Says you,” you retort. “I was a princess.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You ain’t never letting that one go.”

“Nope!” you chirp happily. Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep the smile off of her face as she closes the book gently. You intertwine your fingers with hers, giving her a squeeze. “Hey, you okay?” you ask.

Paige nods, her smile widening. She leans in to kiss you softly, which makes you grin against her. “Never better,” she assures you. “I was right, though.” You hum, gazing up at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “You are my greatest love.”

summary after finding out you ended your sexual arrangement with paige for work purposes, she takes it upon herself to show you how much she’s been missing you and how badly she’s been needing you. warnings paige is a hornball that can’t comprehend why you’d want to obtain from having sex, sexual content, packing, strap-on sex, strap-sucking, spitting, literal cum eating like… p is a freak. from lena i felt like bringing back some old pairings so this is p x that reporter i wrote about a minute ago ( in my main masterlist titled easy access ) this is nasty, i’m ovulating so there’s that.

Paige had been accustomed to the life that came with being a star athlete: wake up, practice, treatment, class, nap, lift, and if all of that was completed, the occasional media interview.

Today was one of those days.

Her practice jersey is damp against her body, the navy blue compression shirt underneath clinging to her arms as she answers question after question. Tournament seeding, last year, the draft next month. All of it is the same, just enough for her to know exactly what to say and when to say it.

She stands patiently, arms crossed over her chest as she waits for the next question. And then it comes.

“Paige, is there any advice you’ve given your teammates— specifically Sarah and Jana— about how to handle the tournament now that they’re in it?”

Paige freezes.

It’s your voice, she’s known it well enough to be able to point it out in a crowd full of all other reporters. A voice she’s heard so many times that it became burnt into her brain— every tone, every shift.

You dig your way through to the front, and when Paige sees you— like really sees you for the first time in months— it’s the first time all day that her demeanor shifted. She’s always loved your work attire and how you prided yourself in looking your best. But today you’ve dressed down and she still thinks you look perfect. Low rise washed denim, New Balance sneakers on your feet, and a white shirt with some writing on the left shoulder that she can’t quite make out.

“I’m sorry, can you ask that again? I zoned out for a minute.” Paige clears her throat. The other reporters laugh but you stay focused, it your first media availability with Paige. You knew better than to crack, especially now. So you repeat the question, poised as ever and honestly Paige is a little shocked. She thought if anything you’d be just as off your game as she was. But you weren’t.

She stutters, and it’s so small that you almost miss it, but she answers anyways. “Just to embrace the moment. Pressure is a privilege, and they came here to preform on the biggest stage—” Her eyes bore into your own, blue like large pools of cerulean. The same eyes that once made you give up everything, toss away your morals, and submit to her. “— and we all got total confidence in them. Hopefully that translates to them having total confidence in themselves.”

You nod, thinking about how generic her answer was and how your boss would probably have something to say back at the office. It seemed like she always did, but that’s what came with being an intern, you’ve learned.

Media availability ends, and you are very glad that Paige was the last to be interviewed because you can’t wait to get away from her fucking gaze. You cut the recording on your phone, shoving it in the back pocket of your jeans, followed by sticking your notepad and pen in your purse.

You follow suit with everyone else, turning towards the practice facility’s exit doors to head back to the office. Until your stopped, a hand to your lower back that send a rush to your core.

You’re reminded of the first time. The way you danced against her at Ted’s her hand on your back, bending you over as you twerked her jeans, the feeling of the zipper against your ass. How she took you home, made your legs shake and your toes curl, just to become even more vulnerable with you in bed hours later. You learned a lot about Paige that night.

You learned even more about yourself.

That no matter what, as long as she was around you’d never be able to resist her.

It’s exactly why you turn towards face her right now, you hands cautiously gripping your purse and the other raking through your hair.

“Look who finally came to see me.” Paige’s nails rake along your skin, dangerously drawing you closer and closer to her.

You feel your knees getting weak already. She smells surprisingly good considering she just got out of practice, she looks even better. But you can’t. “Stop.” You groan, reaching back to brush her hand off.

“I’m just checkin’ on you, you good? It’s been a while.” Paige says, her voice sultry and a bit cheeky. She’s priding herself on the fact that she still has you like this.

“Paige, we’re not doing this here. I’m at work.” It reminds you of what you said the last time you had her. MSG in New York, another day you were supposed to be focused on work that ended up with Paige’s hand in your pants.

She nods, pretending to understand but the look on her face lets you know she’s thinking about anything but. “Okay, then come over later.”

The blonde had a way of making you go speechless every time you saw her, but right now you were literally at a loss for words. You made it clear when you cut her off— Paige was a distraction— so for her to stand here, so hellbent on getting you alone, in a way she once had you, was ridiculous.

You scoff, looking around at the now filing out hallway. You drag her off, fingers digging into the bicep that’s so fucking big you nearly are taken aback by it. “I’m not having sex with you, P. It’s done, you know that.”

“You’re tellin’ me whoever else you’re sleeping with makes it feel as good as me? Y’know that’s bullshit, ma.” She goes on, and you take a step back for your own sanity. A response bats around in your brain, you shouldn’t tell her the truth, she would get too confident. Too cocky. You didn’t need that.

It came out anyway, like word vomit. “I’m fucking celibate, Paige, there isn’t anyone else.” You grit through your teeth.

Paige’s eyes nearly glow and her mouth curls up into his God awful smirk that you’d want to slap off if she wasn’t so damn sexy. “You? You’re playin’.”

“I’m not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish.” You mutter, walking across the hallway to the elevators plans sweating as you do what you know best. Work.

Your night ends with a much needed bath, soaking in the hot tub to soothe yourself of all the stress piled up throughout the day.

And the tension that only Paige Bueckers could give you.

She was good, you had to give her that. And what made it worse was that it was effortless. Paige didn’t have to say too much, or even touch you. All she needed was one moment, one instance where your demeanor shifts and your strength cracks and all of a sudden you’re her’s again.

You couldn’t shake your mind of her even if you tried.

And it made your core fucking throb.

When you finally do exit the bath— legs a bit sore from the attention you had given yourself between your legs— you cater to yourself. Legs smooth, and body smelling of sweet vanilla cashmere. You throw on some cute pajamas, matching silk with a top that fits you loosely. The plan is to get in bed, until you hear a knock at the door.

You trail to the door, manicured feet padding against the hardwood.

And then you open it.

And there she is.

At first, it’s like your mind is playing tricks on you. Because it’s been forever, and no one in their right mind would show up to their old fuck buddy’s apartment at this hour. Paige seems to be the exception.

She wears these dark grey Essentials sweatpants, slightly dirty and scuffed on the hems. They sag just enough for you to see a small edge of her Nike Pro’s when she lifts her arm over her head and her fingers run through her hair. Her hoodie matches, and that makes your knees buckle. The dark fabric makes her skin and hair look even brighter.

“Why are you here?” You sigh before she even gets a chance to speak. Being mean about it seems to be the only way you can think of to get her out. It’s for your own sanity anyway. You’ve never been able to rid her off for as long as you and Paige have known each other.

Obviously, you don’t know Paige.

Because she finds that so fucking attractive.

Paige bites her lip, trailing her eyes to your shoulder where the strap of your shirt has fallen. “I’m still on this celibacy thing. Like, are you sure? And why the hell would you want to do that?”

You have to laugh, because it’s hysterical that your vow to stay away from sex had UConn’s star player unable to think straight.

“Paige, I—”

“Seriously, we’re not having sex anymore because of what? Did I do something wrong? Am not doin’ it right, you gotta tell me.” Paige is babbling, and it makes you so embarrassed that you tug her inside the apartment before your neighbors can hear about it.

It’s unfathomable to you. “I didn’t think it was that hard for you to find someone else to sleep with, Paige.”

“It’s not! But you cut me off, and the first time I see you again you’re talkin’ bout some celibate. So, naturally I’m curious.” Paige attempts to explain, hands moving freely in the air as she talks and you stare at them the entire time. Her knuckles slightly red from the cold, veins adorning the back of her hand, and her long ass fingers. It was a taunt. As soon as you made it clear that you weren’t going, here she was. Testing you.

You take a step back, as if the distance would give you a clear head. “You’re a distraction.”

“What?”

“A distraction.” You speak up. “I can’t do my job with you texting me and telling me all the ways you want me in bed. I literally couldn’t focus.” You explain, and now that it’s said out loud you feel ridiculous.

Paige Bueckers was so good at fucking you, that it made it hard for you to do your job.

The blonde lets out a sigh of relief, dropping her arms down on your counter and leaning against it.

“You happy now?” You respond, sighing loudly.

“Ma—”

“No.” You cut her off quick. This is exactly how it went last time. And this time you had half a mind to know better.

“Let me get you there, baby. No distractions this time, I swear.” She murmurs, voice low and almost strained— hours of practice for the tournament to blame. “No way you don’t want it, ma, just please.”

Paige is walking towards you now, hands reaching for your hips and you let her. You actually don’t even think about moving. You can smell her cologne, warm and woodsy, sticking to the fabric of her clothes. Her hands trail off you to the hem of her hoodie, pulling it up and over her head.

Your eyes trail to the ground it falls on almost immediately, because Paige’s choice of a thin tank top and no bra leaves very little to your imagination.

“What do you want, ma?”

A whimper flies from your lips as her hand grips your chin, fixing you to look at her. Your hand grips her shirt for leverage, clinging to what’s left of your morals.

That’s when she knows she has you exactly where she wants you.

“Hmm? What do you want?” Paige repeats, dragging your hand down her abdomen until it rests at her sweatpants. And you feel it. Her sweats were baggy enough to conceal it, but as soon as you feel the length in your palm it’s clear that Paige was thinking about you the same way you were thinking about her in the bath. “You want it? ‘Cause y’know I’m always ready to give it to you.”

“I want it.” You whine, snaking a hand up to her neck, tugging her close to you.

Her breath fans your lips, a smile gracing her face that doesn’t even try to hide. “Yeah? Break this li’l streak you got goin on?” Her hand tugs your shirt strap lower down your arm, and the second it’s reached the furthest it could go you’re slotting your lips with hers.

She tastes like everything you’ve remembered her to be, minty but still sweet. Her lips are soft, vaseline smeared on them and transferring to your chin. You continue palming the strap through her sweats, and Paige groans like it’s an extension of herself.

“Want you.” You moan.

“I know. I got it, baby. I gotchu.”

Paige’s strap sits on your tongue as you greet it with tiny kitten licks. You should’ve known that Paige would’ve made your work for it after leaving her to dry for months. Which truly wasn’t your intention. Paige was attractive, women wanted her, and you expected her to get it elsewhere.

Obviously not.

Her back is flush to your couch, shirt hiked up to give you a view of her hardened nipples and perfect fucking abs. You grip the base, spit trailing down the length that you take into your mouth.

“Mhmm, put that fuckin’ mouth to work, baby. Lookin’ so sexy f’me.” She hums, pushing your still slightly damp hair out of your face.

You plant your hands to her thighs, taking the strap deeper just to prove that you can. A part of you thinks you enjoy showing out for Paige like this again, doing what she wanted when she wanted.

Her eyes flutter shut like she can feel your mouth, the warmth of your tongue running on the underside of her cock— and if she closes her eyes hard enough, she probably could. But the vibration is good enough.

“Four months. Four and a half fuckin’ months.” Paige says to herself between breaths.

You pull back to breathe, saliva connecting your lip to the tip. You’re completely mesmerized by her, you vulnerable she looks even when you’re the one on your knees with her cock in your mouth. You spit on it again, sucking it back into your mouth before taking the strap in again. You’re sure that Paige’s eyes roll into her head.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.” She grunts, hips moving forward further towards you. “Gonna paint your face, I swear.”

Paige’s words send a throb to your cunt. You can almost picture it— her groans and slack jaw as she comes. You draw your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit that’s still covered by your pj’s. The stimulation makes you whine.

“That shit turns you on, ma? Just know you’re so fuckin’ wet.” Paige hums to herself. She decides to reach for your hair, tugging you up and off of her strap until you’re hovering over her.

Saliva dangles from your lip, and in her obvious lust, Paige sticks her tongue out. You’re left speechless. Paige was a freak, you knew that much, but she’s chasing after your fucking spit like she’s thirsty for it. Like she was dying in the desert and you were the only one to solve her thirst.

She almost slurps it up, the noise so vulgar that you moan in her face. Paige chases after your mouth, locking lips with you in a deep kiss. Your hips grind against the strap, paying no mind to the mess it’s going to create on your shorts.

“Need it inside me, P.” You plead.

“Celibate my fucking ass.” She groans against you, using her strength to push you to the other end of the couch. Her hands dig into your hips, clawing at your shorts so hard that you’re sure she’s going to rip them off of you.

You’ve never seen Paige like this, this needy, this horny. She dragged your mouth onto her cock with a fervor that was animalistic. Then now, her teeth nipping at your own lips so hard she might draw blood.

It’s hot.

It makes you upset that you held out on her for this long.

Paige’s hands slip to your shoulders, pushing the other strap down your arm and putting your tits on display for her. She breaks the kiss, lips trailing down your jaw, neck, and chest before finally reaching your nipple.

“Paige!” You moan, head thrown back in ecstasy as she pulls your shorts off next.

“No crotchless this time?” She jokes, making you think back to the last time she fucked you stupid. It gets her off, watching how desperate you are for her to make you come.

“I need you to fuck me,” You whine desperately, hand fisting a handful of Paige’s perfect blonde hair. “Please,” you beg. Your hips grind against the unbelievably long strap, almost as if they had a mind of their own.

“I like it when you beg.”

“I know.” You tug your black panties to the side. Paige smirks at how soaked you are, the way your slick drips through your folds. “Want your cock, P. Please.”

With your help in spreading your legs Paige is tapping the tip against you. The wetness of your pussy filling her ears like the sound of music. Your mouth falls agape at the sudden pressure. and she takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with her own spit. A fat glob falling on your tongue and you swallow it almost immediately.

“Tell me you want it again.”

You sob, body aching in need. “I want it, I want it, Paige.”

Without hesitation, the athlete thrusts forward, burying all eight inches balls deep inside you. It’s so foreign, months of being away from her to blame. A collective gasp escapes both of your mouths. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head while her mouth formed the perfect ‘O’. Paige eyes you like a piece of meat before connecting your lips again in a heated frenzy. Your back arched into Paige’s as she gripped your hips and began roughly pounding into your cunt.

“You hear her? Just screamin’ for this dick, baby.” Paige hums, her words sending a rush of more arousal out of you. A mixture of pleasure and ecstasy spread across your features as Paige established a fast and relentless pace. “You’re so fuckin’ easy.”

“Baby—”

She breaks the kiss. “Imma distraction, but you can’t get off without me. Can’t make this pussy cum the way I do.” The couch practically groans in protest, its durability tested as Paige’s grunts reverberated against your lips. The room filled with the intoxicating sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping together in a sensual symphony that echoed off the walls.

You watch Paige tuck her shirt in her mouth, giving her a perfect view of not only where she digs you out, but your tits that bounce in her face.

She’s fucking the shit out of you. And that alone is enough to draw her close to that climax.

“Y-you— Paige, baby. You’re fuckin’ deep, fuckkkk!” Your eyes were tightly shut, face contorted in pure bliss as you cling to the blonde with every fiber of your being. Your legs wrapped around Paige’s thighs, ensuring that she couldn’t escape your embrace. “F-fuck! P!” You cry out.

“Fuck you stupid, yeah? Put yo’ ass to sleep. Make it feel so fucking good, huh?” She roughly pushed the fabric of your shirt over your head. The fabric slipped away, leaving you fully exposed. “Cover me in it, cum on me, ma.”

You want her closer, deeper, anything. So you wrap your arms around her neck, tugging the blonde so close that your forehead touches hers. She keeps thrusting, seemingly noticing that you needed more.

“I know you’re close.” You murmur, trying your hardest to keep your eyes focused on her. “Paige, oh my Goddddd—”

“Y—shit.” Paige’s legs tremble, and you notice the slight falter in her rhythm. “Fuck, you first.” She lets out a groan, followed by a chase of your lips. It’s soft, way softer than how she fucks you.

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming— I’m gonna cum, baby.” You babble over and over, your resolve fleeting your body as your orgasm creeps up on you. Paige lets out a high pitched gasp, her face flushed with overwhelming pleasure.

She tried to hold back, to maintain her composure, but failed miserably. A moan of pure bliss escaped her lips as she thrusts once more, practically balls deep into you as she comes. You let out a moan yourself as you feel the warmth taking over your body.

Paige doesn’t pull out, only pulling back enough to swipe her fingers over the ring of come that you’ve left behind. She brings her fingertips to her mouth, riding them out your taste.

“You left me out to fucking dry for four damn months?” Paige asks, her breathing labored from the exertion. She brings her hand down to your cunt, clit completely swollen. Almost desperate. “Left me without this shit for too long, ma.” She mumbles around her hand yet again.

She’s cleaning you up with her fingers, every bit of your release finding her tongue in almost desperate sweeps. You whine at the sensitivity, but let her.

Because it’s Paige, and you can’t fucking resist.

You call her name, waiting for her confirmation. She’s the only one with a key, but saying her name and hearing her respond feels safe, like a habit you’ve formed without thinking. Silence. You lean back in your chair, letting your game screen idle as you peer through the small crack in your door.

You wait a moment, letting the silence of the apartment settle around you before it's broken by the unmistakable shuffle of her kicking off her shoes, the soft thud of her door and then steady beat of music seeping from her room.

You turning back to your desktop and unpausing your game. Your fingers move across the key‐ board, killing pixelated monsters and yet still, your mind crawls back to 20 minutes ago, when Paige walked in.

Were you supposed to knock on her door and ask if she was okay? Basic roommate etiquette would assume so, but it's not as though you and Paige were buddy-buddy. Sure, you'd chilled together a few times to catch up on Netflix's latest murder doc and yeah, she'd invited you to one or two of her teammate's afterparties (none of which you'd gone to, instead you offered polite decline that assured she really didn't need to ask you again).

At most, you and Paige were just in each other's orbit. Nothing more than two girls attending the same university who got placed together in an apartment just off-campus.

The clock ticks to 3:15, and finally, the music fades into silence. She’s probably asleep now. You tell yourself to focus on your game, but your gaze drifts to the wall, your thoughts lingering on her room just a few feet away. Honestly, you’re not sure why you’re still awake.

***

You’re unpacking your groceries when you notice her—Paige, sprawled out across the couch like she’s trying to disappear into it. Her hoodie is pulled low over her face, but you can still make out the outline of her eyes, locked on you the moment you glance in her direction.

"You good?" You ask, feeling the need to soften your voice - something in your body tells you to tread carefully.

She yawns, stretches, and when she speaks, her voice is thick with sleep—rougher than usual, like she hasn’t quite woken up. “Yeah, just a bit fucked up.”

There's something in her tone that gives you pause like she's daring you to dig deeper. You hesitate. It sounds bad to say, but you've always liked the unspoken agreement between you two - the comfortable distance, once again, like planets moving in the same orbit but never touching.

You take the bait. "What's up?"

She pushes herself up, so she's now resting on her elbows,  “Ari fucking broke up with me."

The two had seemed to be one of the few couples who could go the distance. In the few games you attended, you'd seen her girlfriend always present, aptly draped in a number 5 jersey titled 'Bueckers'. As far as college relationships went, it seemed like love.

"Oh." It's all you manage to say at first, unsure of how to respond. Were you supposed to hug her? 

Paige drops back onto the couch, covering her face with her hands. "Yeah, oh."

"And it's final?" You ask, "Cause, it's never really over, over. It's probably -"

"She blocked me," she cuts in, still deep within the recesses of her hoodie. "She probably blocked me the moment I left her place ... I've messaged her and called her but it goes straight to green or voice mail."

You nod, once again unsure of what to say next. You'd don't have to think because Paige drops in again. She had a one-of-a-kind skill of unknowingly being able to fill in silences.

"It's not like I cheated or she cheated," you hear the emotions flooding back into her voice - it's not sadness, well it probably is but it's wrapped up in anger and disbelief. "Which spins me because it's not like we were in a bad spot - okay yeah, I wouldn't respond sometimes, but that's normal, sometimes I'm genuinely tired from training!"

"Maybe she's stressed too and it's all a bit too much to deal with," You say.

She throws you a quick look, something between betrayal and you're not helping. It's fast, and she cools her features back to normal.

"- Not that I'm saying it's a good excuse," you counter, "But, it's something to consider. Did she actually say why?"

"Something about I'm not present. It's bullshit," she sighs.

You want to say something comforting, anything, but everything that comes to mind feels hollow. Besides, it's not like whatever you could say could put a bandage over a 2 year relationship ending.

She sits up again, her hoodie falling back to it's rightful face. She looks around the room, her eyes itching for something to distract her from whatever uncomfortable feelings she can feel rising. Her eyes fall on her set of keys, the original red fob you'd both received on move-in day had long been overtaken by numerous keychains and fabric bracelets - even a heart picture frame.

"Hey, do you want to do something?" She asks, "Get out of here for a bit?"

At the tip of your tongue is some vague excuse about how you really need to cook right now, but before it can come out, she speaks again.

"Please - I really need to step out for a bit." Her voice is soft, just about holding back a crack.

You're not a monster so of course, you nod and say sure. You don't ask where to until you're following her long strides down the hall and into the low-lit car park. The night feels colder than usual and your bare feet in slides feel anything but appropriate for the weather.

An orange glow from a stray streetlight casts a small tinge of light on her face as she unlocks the door to her car. "I was thinking of going to the outdoor court. You know, the one near the park? It's just a short drive. I could really use a change of scenery, and maybe shooting around would help clear my head .... that cool?"

"Yeah," you say, because what else could you say? "That’s cool."

How cliche you think - a basketball player needing to shoot hops to clear their head. 

The drive is quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between you. Paige keeps her eyes on the road, and the tension in her shoulders is palpable. You can't help but think this is how she looks when she's on the bench, (playing the game in her mind, sizing up the opposition and just yearning to get back in).

Connecticut's lights blur past as you make your way out of the downtown area, the campus fading away as she turns into a quieter, more residential neighbourhood. The basketball court comes into view, illuminated by a few scattered streetlights and a single overhead light, casting a gentle glow over the cracked asphalt and faded court markings.

She pulls into the nearest parking bay, reversing in with ease, her arm draping over your headrest as she checks the mirror. It's then that you wonder how many times she's done this exact move with her ex. You imagine her ex sitting where you are now, lips fresh with a kiss and the seat shaped by her form.

A whole two years, you think. No wonder she was going stair-crazy.

You're now out of the car, rocking on the back of your feet as Paige gets her duffle bag out of the car. It's at that point when she finally asks you about your day.

You shrug, "It's been ight, nothing much to be fair. Just trying to get my head around ... we've got a new TA and the bitch marks hard as hell."

She chuckles in response, "Damn, tough one. You do something with economics, right?"

"Yeah, something about economics. Not my first choice but it's gonna do the job," you reply trailing behind her longer strides as she leads you both into the empty court.

"Economics. Get the job done?" she repeats with a playful scoff, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Can't tell if you're being humble or—"

"Not humble," you interject, "It's an ends to means."

She unzips her duffle bag and brings out her ball and bounces it a few times, the rhythmic thud echoing softly in the quiet night. "What's the end goal then?"

You're shrugging as you go to take your place on the edge of the court, watching as Paige moves around and seemingly becomes one with the court. (something about seeing her in her natural ele‐ ment) "Probably some cushy consulting job. I'm not gonna lie, I've got no idea but I've lowkey liked the subject all through school, it's just made sense to do it."

Paige dribbles the ball a few times, then takes a shot. The ball cuts through the air and swishes through the hoop. light work.

"I'm guessing you've always known what you wanted to do," you continue.

She nods, bounces the ball again, but this her feet and body moving across the court as though she's playing the last two minutes of a game. "Yup! It's always been basketball. From elementary, middle school and high school. Nothing but ball." she punctuates her last line with a throw.

 "Wish that were me!" you say.

She looks over at you, the ball now finding itself passing from hand to hand. "You wanted to play ball?"

It's your turn to scoff, "No, I'm talking about the whole knowing what you wanted to do from the get go."

Paige pauses mid-dribble, her eyes narrowing playfully as she studies you. "Yeah, I get that. Not everyone figures it out early. But, you know, it's not like it's been easy. Just because I knew doesn't mean it wasn't a grind."

She takes another shot, and the ball glides through the net with a satisfying swish. As she retrieves it, she adds, "There's a lot of pressure, too. Once you say 'this is it,' everyone expects you to stick with it, no matter what."

You watch as she moves across the court, her pace slower now, more thoughtful. "I guess I just got lucky," she continues. "Or maybe I was stubborn. It's hard to tell sometimes."

"I guess that makes you one of the few," you say, leaning back against the fence, watching her with a mix of admiration and something else - something you can't quite put your finger on. Is this what her fans felt? It always spun you that she had fans. Fans. Would they be jealous right now? "Most people I know are still figuring it out, including me."

Paige stops dribbling and looks at you, her expression softening. "You've got time," she says, her voice losing some of its earlier intensity. "There's no rush to have it all figured out. Sometimes, the best things come when you least expect them."

She tosses the ball to you, and it lands in your hands with a gentle thud. You can feel the worn leather under your fingers, still warm from her grip. For a moment, you're both silent, the weight of her words hanging in the cool night air.

"Maybe," you say quietly, the ball feeling heavier and heavier in your hands. "But sometimes it feels like everyone else is racing ahead while I'm stuck at the start line."

"Play with me," she says, gesturing you over.

You look down at the ball and then back to her, "You're a D1 athlete. You're just gonna show me up plus I don't even know how to shoot."

"Come on, I'll teach you," There's a playful glint in her eyes. "It'll make me like five percent less sad."

You hesitate, but her enthusiasm is contagious. She hands the ball back to you and steps behind, lightly adjusting your stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent," she instructs, her hands guiding yours on the ball. "Use your legs for power, wrist for control."

You try to follow her lead, feeling her breath close as she directs your movements. "And when you shoot, remember, follow through, like you're reaching into a cookie jar."

You chuckle at the analogy and take a shot. The ball bounces off the rim, and Paige claps. "Not bad. Let's go again."

Paige steps in front of you, her tone shifting slightly as she moves into coach mode. You can tell she's probably coached some little league somewhere here in Connecticut or wherever her home state was - she’d mentioned it numerous times but you’d forgotten. "Alright, keep your elbow in and focus on the backboard," she says, her hands demonstrating the movement. "And don't forget, it's all about the follow through."

You roll your eyes playfully. "Alright, coach. I got it."

"It's Coach P," She smirks, her eyes twinkling. "Just trying to make you a baller." You take another shot, and this time, the ball swishes through the net. Paige cheers, giving you a high five. "There it is! You're a natural."

"Light work" you say with a grin. It's anything but.

Paige bumps you lightly with her shoulder. "Not bad at all. But next time, we're working on your dribbling cause that shit was shocking."

***

Nights at the court, which you’d now come to know was actually called St Bernard’s Court, became routine much like when you’d call her name when she’d come back to the apartment.

You’d gotten used to settling into the passenger seat of her car, the familiar hum of the engine surrounding you as she drove, her hands gripping the wheel with that same steady determination. Conversations, once filled with awkward pauses and small talk, now flowed effortlessly. They were the kind of talks that never seemed to end - about everything and nothing, the mundane details of life at uni, complaints about bad food at the cafeteria, or her latest training session. It was simple.

Sometimes, she’d give up her dictator-like hold over the music and let your playlists take over, though more often than not, you let hers play on. You never minded; there was something comforting about the predictable beats of her curated selections. Her taste was always a little sharper, more nuanced than yours, and you found yourself adding some of songs to your liked list when you’d gotten back to the safety of your own room.

Sometimes, after an hour of shooting around, you’d both end up on the concrete, sitting against the low bleachers, legs stretched out before you, talking about whatever came to mind and letting the cold settle deep into your skin. But more often than not, the conversation would shift to her ex. It had become a quiet pattern: Paige would talk about her like it was a distant, painful memory she was still learning how to deal with.

She’d mention her in passing, her tone casual at first, as though it didn’t sting anymore.

It reminded you like she was just like any other girl despite the fame. Unable to resist feigning indifference to hurt - so you didn’t judge because you’d done it over and over.

“I don’t even know why she said that,” Paige would say, tossing the ball back into her hands, eyes focused on something far off. “I never meant to be distant. You know how it is; practice, school, games... life’s a lot.” She’d sigh, running a hand through her hair, shaking her head.

And then, almost like she couldn’t help herself, the bitterness would slip in. “She made it sound like I didn’t care at all,” Paige muttered, kicking the ball across the court. “Like it was all about me, me, me.” Her voice softened, the edges raw, the anger melting into something unspoken and lingering. “She didn’t even give me a chance to explain, to fix things. Not that it matters now.”

You listened. Not to solve anything, not to offer some platitude about how she’d be better off. You listened because, in those quiet moments, it felt like her words were a way of processing, a way to let the weight of everything settle into something less heavy.

Her ex wasn’t just a past relationship, not just a name you’d heard murmured in the back of conversations. She was a part of Paige’s present, even if it was an unwelcome one, lingering in the way Paige looked at the court sometimes, or the way she pulled away when you tried to get too close. Her ex was a shadow that loomed over your conversations, her absence filling the spaces that Paige didn’t want to admit she missed.

“You know, I thought she was the one,” Paige would often say with a dry laugh, picking at the fabric of her hoodie. “Stupid, huh?” She’d shake her head like it was all so ridiculous now. But the way she’d say it, softly, almost tenderly, like she was still trying to convince herself.

And then, just as quickly, she’d pull herself out of it, focusing on something else. “Anyway, I’m not thinking about her tonight,” she’d say, standing up and grabbing the ball.

At some point she’d move on. Stop needing the nights at the court and you’d be proud because your friend (it felt weird to call her a friend thinking about the times you’d dodged her invitations for connection, but things were different now) had moved on.

***

The nights eventually come to an end.

They’re stopped when you’re sitting in yours and Paige’s shared living room, letting the tv play in the background as you listlessly scroll on your phone.

The door to her room is closed but you can hear the familiar music playing through it. She emerges, her face flushed and eyes bright - frantic even.

“Yo ... Guess who just called me?” She announces, taking what felt like her first breath in hours.

You look up, the question hanging in the air between you. Your thumb hovers over your phone’s screen, trying to gauge her excitement.

Paige’s gaze is intense, a slight nervous energy vibrating beneath her words. She doesn’t wait for you to guess.

“Ari,” she says, her voice a little softer now, like she’s unsure what to feel about it. “She called me.” The words hit you unexpectedly, like a slow tide pulling at your feet. A small knot forms in your stomach, not because you’re unhappy for her, but because you weren’t prepared for this.

“Oh shit,” you manage to say, trying to push away the strange, unexpected sensation that’s fluttered inside you.

“She said sorry. She said she made a mistake. Fuck, I... I don’t know even know what think.”

You lean forward a little, trying to sound reassuring. “I mean, that’s a good sign, right? She’s reaching out.”

Paige exhales a short laugh, glancing down at her hands before looking back up at you. “I guess? But fuck, it just feels... messy.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her uncertainty. You’ve seen how much this relationship meant to her, and it’s clear she’s torn.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask.

She shakes her head, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Not yet, I think. I just... I need to think. It’s all a bit much, you know?”

The room goes silent, save for the faint hum of the TV in the background.

For a moment, you sit in the quiet, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. And maybe it’s just you, or maybe it’s just the way Paige is looking at you now, but you sense that something has shifted—ever so slightly, but undeniably.

You’re still not sure what that means yet, or if it means anything at all. But for now, you don’t push.

She sighs and falls back onto the couch, closing her eyes. “I’ll figure it out,” she says softly, more to herself than to you but you know she’s already made her choice. 

You lean back, turning your attention back to your phone, but there’s an odd feeling in your chest that refuses to settle. For a moment, you wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently, if she’d never gotten that call. But before you can think too much about it, Paige shifts beside you, her presence pulling you back down to earth.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

You smile, almost relieved that the tension has eased, even if only for now. “Anytime.”

The night stretches on, the air between you both comfortable again. And yet, you can’t help but wonder why you feel torn. Why aren’t you bubbling with happiness, like how you’d reacted when Zen had called you in senior year to say she and Trevor had gotten back together.

Eventually, you leave the couch, muttering an excuse about needing to get back to studying.

 Ari comes back into the fold of life at yours and Paige’s apartment like she’d never left.

The songs that used to fill Paige’s room—those soft, sad, contemplative ones—shift back to some‐ thing lighter, more upbeat. Her shoes reappear, scattered carelessly by the door, mingling with Paige’s own, like they always belonged together. And just like that, you go back to being good roommates.

That doesn’t hurt. It’s respectful - because who’d let their girlfriend spend nights at the basketball court together? It makes sense.

It only hurts when you come back to the apartment and see them on the couch. The lights dimmed, a fluffy blanket over their legs and a Christmas movie playing.

The first time it happens, you’re awkward. Painfully awkward. Your body not knowing how to react for the first time to something you’d seen countless times before.

You hesitate in the doorway, suddenly unsure of how to move, unsure of what to say. The air between the three of you feels thicker, heavier than it ever has before. You wish you could say something light, make a joke.

They don’t even notice at first - Paige’s attention is wholly focused on the TV screen, her hand absentmindedly brushing through her girlfriend’s hair. You feel like you’re not even supposed to be here, even though it’s your apartment too.

Eventually, though, Paige looks up, her eyes meeting yours, and for a second, the warmth in them falters. She smiles, but it’s tight, apologetic.

“Hey,” she says, her voice a little too bright, a little too forced. “You’re back. We were just watching this cheesy Christmas movie. Wanna join?”

The offer is there, hanging in the air between you, but the tension is palpable. You force a smile, shaking your head quickly.

“Nah, it’s fine,” your voice comes out more strained than you’d intended. “I was just coming in to ... grab something.”

You spend the rest of the night at Zen’s.

“So bitch, what the hell is up with you?” Zen asks. her gaze sharp as she watches you.

You blink, focusing back on her, the buzz of the rosé clouding your thoughts. “Nothing, I’m fine,” you reply, maybe a little too quickly.

“Sure ... sure you are,” she says with a knowing look, before taking a long sip from her glass, then a pause. “Dude, you’ve literally been distracted all night. Moping around everywhere.”

You hesitate, a little caught off guard. You’ve told Zen about Paige, from the odd first meeting to playing basketball together and to the events which took place hours ago.

“You sure you’re okay with them... back together?” Zen continues, her voice quieter, but there’s a softness to it now. She’s not trying to push, just letting the question sit there.

The idea that maybe everyone sees what you’re trying to hide - maybe even Paige  - that part makes you feel sick.

You take another sip of your wine, the sweet sharpness of it doing nothing to dull the growing ache in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say again, but it’s not convincing. Not to Zen. Not to yourself.

Zen’s eyes soften, and for a moment, she doesn’t look at you like she’s waiting for a response. She looks at you like she already knows the answer. You know it. Damn.

***

“Driver, roll up the partition, please!”

She says it all politely, like her lips aren’t as red as a cherry and swollen, like your hands haven’t untucked and found their way up under her dress shirt, nails scraping over the ridges of her abs, like she hasn’t been grinding against you for the last two blocks, all while tasting like champagne and every bad decision you were always going to make tonight. Your leg is hiked up over her lap, and she’s been kissing you like she doesn’t give a damn that the limo is still moving, that you’re supposed to be on your way to the afterparty, that there’s a whole world outside this car waiting to celebrate her—number one overall, finally Dallas’ rookie.

The second she stood up, walked across that stage, and held up that jersey, she was already thinking about getting back to you. And when she did, when she came striding over, still grinning like a kid on Christmas, the most anticipated person in the room but still just your girl, she grabbed you like she needed proof this was real.

Her arms slid around your waist, pulling you in like she was scared someone might try to take you from her. You smiled up at her, and expressed how proud you were, of course. Her lips brushed your forehead, and she made sure you heard the six words that followed, whispering into your hair, “couldn’t have done it without you.”

This time, your mouth is on her neck before she even finishes her sentence, nipping and sucking at her skin, breathing in her Valentino like you can pick apart every ingredient in it. Too eager for manners, and way too far gone to care, you don’t even hear the driver’s muttered response, not even the hum of the partition sliding up and clicking into place. No more audience. No more distractions. Just you and her. Atleast for a couple more miles.

And Paige? Back like she never left, like she needed that barrier up before she could really lose herself in you. “Ain’t even gon’ take ya time with it?” she teases, smiling as her hands slide down, find the swell of your ass, squeeze like she’s been dying to do it all night. “Fuck, y’so impatient,” she mutters, tilting her head back just enough to let you work, and when you bite down just right, she shivers, the pads of her fingers tightening against your shoulder for some sense of stability.

“Mhm?” You grin against her throat, licking over the marks you just left. “You wanna do something about it?”

Paige groans, large hands already pushing the fabric of your dress up over your hips. The amount of need in her movements is overwhelming, because she’s been too good the entire night. She’s been sitting pretty at that table, shaking hands, doing interviews, feeling your eyes on her and knowing she couldn’t do shit about it. Not yet.

And now she’s got you all to herself.

Paige never does anything halfway, and that includes kissing you like she’s trying to ruin you. Your tongues move all sloppy, the sounds even nastier than the kiss, and you swear you hear the music get louder, vibrating against every corner of the vehicle, the driver clearly trying to drown out the obscene sounds of Paige Bueckers losing it in the backseat. But fuck, you’re not quiet either.

You let two of her fingers push your panties to the side, gasping as they run through your slick. You grip onto her tighter as Paige hoists you fully into her lap, straddling her leg as she whispers filth into your ear.

Big hands, rough from years of handles, crossovers, midrange shots that got her here, but gentle where they need to be—slipping between your thighs, spreading you open like she already knows what she’s gonna find.

Her fingers are slipping through the mess you’ve already made for her, slow at first, just to get you going, because she knows how much you want it, because she likes making you wait. But then you whimper, and it hypnotizes her to do exactly what you wanted her to do.

Paige is fast, but she’s precise despite being intoxicated, two fingers sinking inside you like your pussy was made for her. Your breath catches, body jerking forward, head tipping back against the seat, but she keeps you secure, pressing down on your stomach. “That’s it,” she urges, free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for her. “Lemme hear it, baby.”

“Mfmph, there.” Your fingers wrap around her wrist while hers curl just right, pressing against that spot that has your thighs shaking, your back arching from her chest. The blonde watches you intently, her pupils blown, lips slick and kiss swollen, owning every reaction like it’s another trophy for her collection. “Right there, P” you drag out.

The music gets louder, and you can’t even make out the lyrics, just the beat of something that never falls low. You’re sure you’d have some remorse for the driver if you weren’t about three drinks in and a little fucked out, but you can’t find it, because Paige wants all of it. Every sound, every plea, every desperate, breathless, “Paige, please.”

And, oh, do you give it to her.

Paige groans at the way you say her name, like she can feel it straight between her legs, like it’s fueling her. Her fingers keep working you open, hitting every spot like she knows your body better than her own, because truthfully, she does. She’s mapped you out a hundred times before, but never like this, never this drunk, never with the high of being number one mixing with the high of you.

“That’s my girl,” she praises, watching the way her fingers disappear in and out with half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Look so pretty takin’ it, baby. Knew you would.”

You tremble, a moan breaking past your lips, and Paige just grins, like she’s putting on another show, something like the one she just left from. But this one? This one is just for her.

“Almost there?”

You nod frantically, nails digging at her wrist, trying to keep yourself together—but fuck is it hard when she’s all over you like this. She speeds up just a little, the wet sounds of her digits working you over and making your cheeks burn, but Paige loves it. She leans in, licks up the side of your neck, tasting the wreckage.

“Paige,” you pant, eyes fluttering.

“Say it again,” she rasps, her forehead pressed to the side of yours now, her fingers still moving, hips subtly grinding against nothing, like she’s as desperate as you are.

“Paige,” you whimper, and you wish you could say it was voluntary. “I—”

You don’t even get the chance to finish, because Paige presses down on your stomach again, just right, and your whole body reacts—clenching around her fingers, thighs twitching like she just stole every bit of your sanity. You really think she might’ve. Maybe she’s been taking from you this entire night—the air in your lungs, the thoughts from your head, the control you thought you had.

“Yeah, I know,” she talks you through it, lips brushing against your temple, her fingers still working, still curling inside you, playing you like a highlight reel. “Go ‘head, ma. Give it to me.”

Your release crashes into you, body locking up before breaking apart, your moan swallowed by Paige’s mouth as she kisses all of it out of you, eating up every last sound like she needs it, like she wants it dripping down her chin. Her fingers never stop moving, making sure you know she did this to you.

She pulls away with a bite of your lip, savoring the remnants of her own name on your tongue, and for a second, you think she’ll let you breathe, let you come down from the high she just sent you to.

But then she shifts against you the same way she’d been doing all night, grinds her hips up into nothing, and you feel it.

Paige Bueckers, all six feet of her, usually so composed, the one who calls the shots in bed and most of the time out of it—is crumbling for you now, fists gripping at the leather seat like she’s barely holding on.

Your fingers slide down slowly at the realization, popping open her belt, then her slacks, pushing them down just enough to expose the waistband of her boxers.

All you need is five minutes.

So you move. Drop to your knees right between hers, push her legs wider as you settle between them, dragging your palms up her thighs when she breathes out your name in her gravelly Minnesota accent. You let your nails creep up under her shirt, scratching lightly against her lower stomach. Too much teasing for the blonde, not enough mouth.

Paige growls, actually growls, and before you can blink, she grabs your wrist, pressing your hand right over her, rolling her hips into your palm. “Ain’t in the mood for allat,” she mumbles, jaw clenched, pupils dilated. “You know what the fuck I want, baby. Stop stallin’.”

You listen.

Partly because she’s just had the biggest night of her life, the kind of night people dream about. Winning a National Championship just a few weeks prior to getting your name called first for the draft, becoming the face of a franchise, name solidified in history. She worked her ass off for it too, and tonight? Tonight, she made it.

So you listen. You don’t stall, and you swear you hear the music get louder again—like the driver knows exactly what’s about to happen.

The minute you start mouthing at her, you can feel her muscles jump under your lips. Paige inhales, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, rubbing at your skin. The limo rocks slightly, the bass from the speakers rattling through your ribcage, but none of that matters. The only thing you care about is the way Paige is falling apart in your mouth.

She tries to hold out, tries to keep it together, but the way her thighs twitch when your tongue moves just right? The way she shudders when you suck?

“Fuck,” she groans finally, head tipping back, body lunging upward on instinct.

And she loses it.

Because Paige has never been one to sit back and just take it.

Her hips start moving, rolling into your mouth, and you let her, let her use you, let her chase what she needs because you need it too—the way she sounds, the way she tastes, the way her legs start to tremble, thighs pressing against your cheeks and smudging your makeup because she can’t help it.

She’s ruined and a little helpless, mumbling half formed curses and praises that don’t even make sense. You swear you could come again just by listening. “Been needin’ you all night. Keep doin’ that.”

She rides it out while your tongue works in circles, fingers digging into her thighs to keep her there even though she can’t be still, her body shaking along with her hands that can’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You flatten your tongue, holding her down a little rougher when she bucks up against your mouth. She’s so close, right there, her body trying to outrun her own orgasm, but you don’t stop.

“Please—please, baby—feels s’good,” she whines, her fingers tugging at your hair just the way she knows you love, hips stuttering, moans guttural. “Just like that—don’t stop, don’t—”

She chokes on her next breath, her body breaking just like yours did, just like she’s so deserving of.

And when she finally slumps back against the seat, spent, her chest still heaving, her thumb lazily stroking over your cheek, she grins down at you, tired, satisfied, definitely not ready for the whatever afterparty diorama is waiting for her like a coronation.

“Yeah,” she breathes, licking her lips as she pulls you back up into her lap, kissing you like she could go another round, tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste herself.

“Number one pick, baby,” she slurs. “How that sound?”

Like trouble. Like a whole dynasty in the making. Like she’s already on top of the world, and somehow, that ain’t high enough.

You giggle, pressing her cheeks between your fingers as you peck at her lips. “Fucking great. How’s it feel?”

“Feel like I could do this all night,” she mumbles, hips rocking up into you, her need reigniting just like that. She masks it as a slight shift, but you know better. “What about you? Think you got another one in you?”